Love: Such a Silly Game We Play
by I've-Gotta-Be-Me
Summary: Future AU - It's Valentine's Day and everyone's trying to figure out just how to make this day special. Others are too occupied making plans to rue the day and despise their singledom. Either way, they're connected in ways they cannot imagine.
1. Chapter 1

_You've got four and twenty hours_

_Just one day to prove to me _

_That your love has got the power_

_Make me believe_

* * *

><p>Valentine's Day.<p>

You either love it or you hate it – there is no inbetween.

Blaine was most definitely the former. He was a hopeless romantic, and he lived day to day enjoying the little moments and appreciating the smallest of gestures. So when there was an _entire day_ dedicated to nothing but love, love, love, you can bet your last pair of socks he was all for it.

It was, by far, his favorite holiday. He thought there was something really great about a day when people are encouraged to lay it all on the line and say to somebody those special words: _I'm in love with you_.

In fact, that's what he was thinking about right now.

He'd woken up early – earlier than he ever had – and lay staring at the ceiling. The form of the man next to him slept on peacefully, totally undisturbed by Blaine's restlessness. He lay on his side, watching the other man sleep. Occasionally he'd reach over and push back a stray strand of hair, tucking it back in place, or pull the sheets up to keep his partner warm.

Those three words kept tumbling around in his mind - _I love you, I love you, I love you._ They were easy enough to think, but saying them aloud was the real challenge. Blaine would mutter them to himself in practice, but the syllables always got twisted and caught in his throat. He was determined to get them out on this: the most romantic day of the year. This would be the year he told somebody that he was in love with them.

He was starting to toss and turn, fidgeting nervously - sleep was evading him. When the clock told him it was finally an acceptable hour to be awake, he snuck out of bed and down the stairs to the kitchen.

He busied himself by making breakfast for his wonderful boyfriend. That's what he kept telling himself. He kept reminding himself of all the great times they'd had together – every single asset and quirk that he'd catalogued in his mind and adored. Every moment he'd ever felt like saying those words, but never had the guts; always shying away and settling for a "You're amazing" or "What did I do to deserve you?"

He made pancakes, he made bacon and eggs, he squeezed some fresh orange juice and even put a single rose on the tray. When everything was artfully arranged, he took the tray and started back up the stairs with care. He made sure not to make any noise as he set the tray down on the bedside table, clearing a space for it.

The other man twitched, sighed and turned over to face away from him, but he didn't wake up. Blaine released the breath he'd been holding with a _whoosh_ and retreated to the bathroom to make himself presentable.

His curly hair was a mess, but there was no time to fix that without jumping in the shower and making a huge racket. He wet his fingers and patted it down as best he could. He peeked out the bathroom door to make sure he wasn't being too loud. He brushed his teeth and surveyed himself in the mirror.

He was still wearing only his boxers – ironically the cheesy kind that were dark red with light pink hearts everywhere. Hey, don't judge him - they were on sale and he _really_ needed some underwear at the time. He thought they'd be a nice touch of humor, but now he was rethinking his choice. But if he changed his boxers then that fact wouldn't go unnoticed and he'd appear overeager.

He_ definitely_ didn't want that.

So he just left them as they were. He was going to do something about the sleep in his eyes but he heard someone groaning from the other room.

His heart was racing. This was it: this was _the moment._ He'd had it planned down to a T and this was it. He took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed as the other man rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head with a groan.

"Do I _have_ to get up?" came the predictable morning question.

Blaine laughed nervously. "Yes, you do. But if it helps, I made you breakfast."

He heard the other man inhale through his nose and mumble an approval. "That's _one_ incentive to get up."

Blaine grabbed his hand, causing the other man to peep out from under his pillow. The familiar glimmer in his light eyes gave Blaine strength to speak. Of course, he'd orchestrated an entire elaborate, mushy speech, but all those words he'd planned to say shot straight out of his head. So he just said what he felt.

"Jeremiah," he began, trying to hide the tremor in his hand.

"_Blaine_," Jeremiah prompted.

"We've been dating for over a year and you're…perfect," Blaine said. "You're patient with me and kind. You always call when you say you will and you treat me well. I'll admit when we met it wasn't…_orthodox_," he admitted with a laugh. Jeremiah snorted, but didn't interrupt. "But being with you has made this past year the _best_ year of my life. And I just wanted to tell you…" He took a deep breath. "I wanted to say…I love you."

Then they were out there. The words were just floating around out there and Blaine didn't know if he wanted to snatch them up and stuff them back into his mouth or not. So he waited.

Jeremiah sat up and squeezed Blaine's hand gently. He was smiling – that was a good sign, right? He leaned in and whispered something just before their mouths met.

"I love you, too."

* * *

><p>"He loves me!" Blaine exclaimed in Mike's general direction.<p>

Mike was standing on the other side of the river – the one Blaine lived right next to. It was the single most beautiful neighborhood in all of Los Angeles (and probably the single most expensive). Houses lined the edges of a man-made river that cut through the area. There were bridges every hundred feet or so for people to pass over.

Blaine ran across one of these bridges and into Mike's arms. He was giddy with excitement, he could barely contain himself.

"I said he loves me!" Blaine said again as if Mike hadn't heard him the first time.

"Really?" Mike asked. He sounded disbelieving, but he hugged Blaine back anyways.

"What? Yes," Blaine answered. "You don't believe me?"

"No, I do," Mike said, backtracking. "I was just bracing for the worst. You know – immigrant mentality."

"Shut up," Blaine said, punching Mike's shoulder in passing. "You're not an immigrant."

"It's an _expression,_" Mike defended himself. "And I wasn't sure how that whole ooey gooey speech of yours was going to fly."

"Ah, I scrapped the speech," Blaine told him.

He'd fretted over this day for weeks with all his closest friends, Mike being one of them. And since they worked together, that means Blaine could ask Mike's opinion day and night if need be. Mike was all filled in on the details.

"You mean you didn't tell him that his eyes were oozing gold irises of magic and that his lips were fashioned by the Gods themselves?"

"I never said those things! I just…said what I felt."

"And that _worked?_" Mike was still disbelieving.

Blaine rolled his eyes. "_Yes,_ it worked. Geez, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?"

"Nah," Mike waved him off. "But it might have something to do with these terrible pink uniforms you've got us wearing all day."

They must've looked strange, two grown men walking down the street side by side wearing bright pink shirts, matching sweatshirts, and hats with flowers on them. They even had pink sneakers for good measure.

"It's a business strategy," Blaine explained. "We attract attention, we get business. We work in a _flower shop._"

"We work in _your_ flower shop," Mike corrected him. "_You_ had the final jurisdiction over these outfits."

"We look good," Blaine said, popping the hood of his sweatshirt.

They came up to the – you guessed it – pink van with a huge decal of a flower on the side, the shop address, and phone number. Blaine took out the keys and crossed to the driver's side.

"Are you always this happy to look like an idiot?" Mike continued to complain as he got in the passenger side.

Blaine laughed as he put the key in the ignition. "It's Valentine's day," he said. "I can be silly, and mushy, and over-romantic and nobody is going to look at me weird because it's allowed."

"Yeah, well. That outfit will still get you some weird looks."

Blaine just shook his head and they drove off.

* * *

><p>Noah Puckerman was the number two sports reporter, <em>thank you very much.<em> And was a pretty big fucking deal, too. At least it was to him.

He fancied himself a big-time reporter. A local celebrity, if you will. It'd taken him years to put the mohawk he'd been infamous for in high school behind him. He knew if he wanted to be "serious" about his future, he'd have to look the part. It didn't hurt with the ladies either, if you caught his drift. He prided himself on being "that sports guy on TV." That's who he was. It was who he _wanted_ to be. This was more than he'd ever dreamed to be.

That's why he was more pissed off than usual. He'd woken up to see that the calendar proclaimed this day to be the fourteenth of February. Cue the eye-rolling. He knew it was going to be a slow sports day, but he'd hoped to do some investigative pieces or fill in for the duds who were taking the day off to "do something special."

But no.

His assignment for the day was the absolute _worst._ He marched straight up to Ms. Haymond and told her so.

"What the _hell_ is this?" he hissed.

She sighed. "Good morning to you too, Noah."

That's what he loved about her. She was a young, successful business woman and she took no guff from anyone. Especially not him.

He ignored her. "_This,_" he held up the vile piece of paper. It was even printed out on pink paper. The _nerve._ "This is a lifestyle piece. You know I don't do these kinds of stories."

"Noah…"

"I am the sports reporter, goddamnit."

"The number _two_ sports reporter," she reminded him.

He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. "I _refuse_ to do it. There has to be something in my area for me to cover today – Anything. I'll scrub the fucking toilets if you want me to."

"_Noah,_" she said again in her usual exasperated tone. "You have the biggest story of the day! Other reporters would _kill_ for your job today."

"Yeah? Then let them have it. I hate Valentine's day."

She crossed her arms. "What's to hate?"

"Look, I have to shut down my..." He lowered his voice, "… my _player-ness_ from New Year's to St. Patty's day just to _afford _this day. It's a waste of time. Women want _commitment._ I just want to have hot, kinky rebound sex after their dates dump them."

She sighed. "How romantic." She shook her head. "I don't buy it, Puckerman. I know you have the potential to sweep a girl off her feet."

"Yeah, well not today," he shot back. "Today I demand another project."

"Everyone else already has their assignments and I need you on this one. Come on, it's not so bad," she told him. "You're our man on the street. You'll get air time all day long. All you have to ask is 'Jane Q…John Q, what does Valentine's Day mean to you?'"

He stared at her long and hard. Somebody must've stirred drugs into this lady's cup of coffee because she sounded like an absolute _idiot._ "It's ridiculous," he told her. "It's a fluff piece – it means nothing."

"Noah, just shut up and cover the fucking story," she said before turning her back on him. "You're lucky you're cute or else you would've been fired by now."

He grumbled and stuffed the pink paper in his mouth before stalking off.

This was definitely the worst day of the year.

* * *

><p>It was definitely the best day of the year.<p>

Blaine had dropped Mike off at the shop and had made his way to the Flower Market. It was busy on a normal day, but on a day like today it was almost impossible to navigate. Almost.

That is, unless you were Blaine Anderson.

Blaine, who knew all the nooks and crannies of this place. He knew every individual seller; he had spent years building up a repertoire with them. They all called out greeting to him as he passed with his cart.

He placed orders like rapid-fire. By the hundreds. He ran around the warehouse like a madman, using his cart as a scooter to clear a path. He rode that thing all over, skidding to a halt only to confirm an order he'd set up for delivery.

He stopped again when he heard his name.

"Blaine!" someone called.

Blaine spun around and saw one of his close friends, Mr. Li.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" he called back, walking over to give him a hug. "Business is good today, huh?"

"More than good," Mr. Li replied in a thick accent. "It's brooming!"

Blaine laughed. "I think you mean 'booming'."

He nodded in agreement. "Why are you always so happy, Blaine?" he asked.

"What's not to be happy about?" he retorted playfully. "Oh, guess what!" He didn't wait for an answer. "Jeremiah said he loves me!"

"No kidding!" Mr. Li said, eyes wide. "He said it back?"

Yes, Blaine had told _everyone_ about his cheesy Valentine's Day speech. When he was excited, he had a little trouble keeping things to himself. He'd told his friends, his co-workers, even his dental hygienist But that just made it easier when he was filling everyone in.

"Yes!" Blaine told him. "Why does no one believe me?" he muttered to himself.

"That's great news!" Mr. Li exclaimed, slapping Blaine on the back joyously. "Maybe you two get married someday." He waggled his eyebrows.

Blaine chuckled. "No, not yet. Maybe someday," he said.

Mr. Li gestured to the camera crew nearby. "I'm going to be interviewed," he told Blaine. "Will you stay to watch?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Blaine promised.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Oh my, what's that sound? I've-Gotta-Be-Me is doing yet another holiday story? And not just any old holiday story, a crossover? You don't say!_

_Whoa, you guys. You caught me. This one is extra fun though because it's Kurt and Blaine centric-ish, but everyone gets a part! Some characters don't come in until later chapters, but they're there. It's really fun to kind of write in everyone's head that I don't always get to include, so this is really a joy for me - genuinely it is. I get my kicks where I can get 'em._

_My original plan was to finish the entire story in one go and post the chapters, a few at a time, until Valentine's Day when I would post the ending, but I'm still writing! So this will probably be a week-long thing, you guys. Are we pumped yet?_

**_Review, leave me thoughts!_**


	2. Chapter 2

Puck _hated_ his life. He definitely hated his life. Particularly at this exact moment.

He was surrounded by a sea of flowers. The powerful, floral scents mixing together were almost overwhelming. He had to fight to get through the awful crowds and then he had to scrounge up an interview. Oddly enough, only one man was willing to give him the time of day, despite the free publicity.

He was surrounded by red and yellow and white and _pink._ God, if someone could just direct him to a tall building to fling himself off of, that'd be a huge help. Or maybe a bar where he could drown his apathy in alcohol. Yeah, that'd be great.

He'd gotten situated with the interviewee, Mr. Li.

He heard the countdown from the cameraman and straightened out his tie and the lapels of his suit. He looked straight into the camera and straight into the hearts of the downtown LA area.

"Good morning," he began in a chipper voice. "I'm Noah Puckerman for the Channel 13 News, and I'm here at the Los Angeles Flower Market. I have with me a _Mr. Li_ – somewhat of a flower expert on this oh so _important _day." He hoped he wasn't laying on the sarcasm too thick. Then again, he hoped Mrs. Haymond could hear it.

He turned to Mr. Li with his best reporter smile. It was almost as if he wanted to actually be there. Almost.

"Mr. Li, can you tell us _exactly _how many roses are sold on Valentine's Day?" He tipped the microphone towards Mr. Li.

"…" His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.

Puck leaned closer. "What was that?"

"…..Roses…"

"I'm sorry, you're not really coming across…"

Then a stranger – some _prick _dressed in a pink shirt and a pink sweatshirt (_pink_) – came up and braced Mr. Li's shoulders, squeezing them in encouragement. The intervew-crasher/pink-wearing-idiot bent to speak into the microphone.

"Approximately one hundred and ten million roses are sold each year on Valentine's Day," he told the viewers at home. "About sixty percent of those are grown right here in California."

"And _who_ are you?" Puck asked, trying his best to be polite.

"Oh sorry," the prick said. He flashed a smile to the camera. "I'm Blaine Anderson." He gave a little wave.

"And are you a flower expert?" Puck asked, glancing back at the camera with his patented grin.

"I actually own a flower shop," Blaine told him. "It's called Mr. Bouquet…" He rattled off the street names and directions before Puck could pull the microphone back.

"You heard it here first," Puck told the audience. "Mr. Bouquet, run by Blaine Anderson – the expert botanist."

Blaine blushed, waving off the comment modestly. God, could he _be_ any more annoying? He was a total sap, you could just tell. He was a natural on camera. Puck just wanted this interview to be over, no offense to Mr. Pink Outfit. He just wanted this whole _day_ to be over.

"Back to you."

* * *

><p>"I think I've found your flaw," Kurt purred as the figure next to him slipped out of bed.<p>

"Oh yeah?" he called from the bathroom.

Kurt leaned back against the pillows. "Yeah, your _job,_" he groaned.

"I thought men dug surgeons," Jesse said. He was tying his tie in the mirror.

"We _do,_" Kurt replied airily. "But we don't like it when said surgeons have to fly out to San Francisco to perform a last-minute heart surgery – ironically – on Valentine's Day."

"Darn," Jesse said, sitting on Kurt's side of the bed. "And I thought you'd find that fact _endlessly_ sexy.

Kurt shook his head. He pulled Jesse down by the shirt collar. He pressed a long, hot kiss to his lips. "Couldn't they get somebody else to do it?" he pleaded against Jesse's mouth. "Just tonight?"

Jesse groaned. "They can't," he answered. "I'm the best."

"Mr. Modesty," Kurt teased.

Jesse got up off the bed to collect his pants from the floor. "I thought you said you had something to do tonight."

"No, I do," Kurt said. "I'm just not entirely sure if I want to…commit to it." He gave Jesse his best please-ditch-your-dying-patient-and-screw-me-until-the-sun-comes-up expression. "I'd _much_ rather spend time with you."

"No way, you said you had a party to go to."

Kurt sighed heavily and dropped a pillow over his face. "I do. But it's Quinn's annual 'I Hate Valentine's Day' party. It was fun when we were in college, but actually it's kind of a huge downer."

"Hate Valentine's Day?" Jesse asked as he bent down to tie his shoes. "What's there to hate?"

"Well, nothing, if you're a very attractive, highly successful surgeon who's never been single in his life," Kurt told him.

"Ha ha ha," Jesse replied humorlessly.

"Well, be realistic, Jess," Kurt said. "For the rest of us – For _me,_" he clarified, "Valentine's Day has been this huge, cosmic bitch slap in the face. It just reminds you of how alone you really are – or _were,_ at least. It reminds you of when you were in high school and the nicest thing anyone ever did for you was pull you_ out_ of a locker someone else stuffed you _into._ Or wiped the slushie off your face," he recalled with a small smile.

"Kurt, I would walk through _fire_ to pull you out of a locker," Jesse proclaimed.

"How romantic," Kurt crooned. He sat up and leaned in for another lingering, sweet kiss.

Jesse murmured "Mmmm" between kisses, putting his hands on either side of Kurt's bare torso. He could feel Jesse giving in, but he pulled away at the last possible second.

"I have to go to catch my plane," he said.

Kurt sighed. "_Fine._ Why do you have to be so responsible all the time?"

"One of us has to be."

Kurt just rolled over and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. He felt the satisfaction of Jesse watching him prance around in his boxer briefs and checking out his ass. It felt pretty damn good to be wanted for a change.

He picked up his cell on the way to the bathroom and saw he had one missed call and a voicemail. He didn't even have to look at the name to know who it was.

He made sure the door was locked behind him – he wasn't sure why – before pressing one to dial his voicemail. Sure enough, it was Blaine.

"Six oh-five," the robotic voice informed him. "One new message.":

"Kurt? Kurt where_ are_ you? More importantly, _why have you not set up a voicemail yet?_ You've had this phone for what – a year? Get on that. When you get this you _have_ to call me back. I have big news – big news! It's important. God, where are you when I need to talk to you. Call me back! No wait…meet me at the shop before you go to school so we can have coffee. Okay? Okay. Bye!"

Kurt shook his head and hung up the phone. Oh well, he wasn't one to turn down free coffee and it wasn't like he had other plans.

He turned on the water and stepped into the spray.

* * *

><p>Mercedes wasn't woken up by the sunlight streaming through her window. She wasn't woken up by the smell of fresh coffee – where was that <em>coming<em> from anyways? Hadn't she run out of coffee two days ago? She wasn't woken up by an ill-timed text or the sound of her alarm.

No, she was awoken by something _much_ better.

She felt someone's weight on either side of her body and she rolled over, expecting to see the face of someone leaning in for a good morning kiss. But when she rolled over, she found out it wasn't arms she was being trapped by. They were legs. _Sam Evan's_ legs to be exact.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers riding low on his hips, his blonde hair mussed from sleep. He looked too attractive to be acceptable this early in the morning, but Mercedes wasn't about to complain.

She looked up at him from the pillows. "This is a nice view to wake up to," she told him.

"I was considering going in the nude, but I didn't want to _overwhelm_ you," he teased.

"Nothing I haven't seen," she razzed back.

He grinned down at her and pulled out an old camera from behind his back. He snapped a picture before she could protest and the photo came sliding out of the front. He aired it out by waving it through the air.

"_Sam_," she said in a warning tone. "If you don't give me that picture, I won't refrain from hurting you."

"Speaking of hurt," Sam started, kneeling down on the bed, straddling her. "Are you feeling a little sore this morning?"

"Why? Should I?" she asked.

"Yes," he told her. "I used to be a stripper, you know."

"That explains a _lot,_ actually."

They laughed and Sam leaned down for a kiss. He tasted like coffee with a small hint of chocolate - like he'd popped a small, foil-wrapped candy in his mouth. It was positively _yummy._ She brought her hands up to frame his face as he placed his fingertips at her waist where her camisole was riding up a bit.

This was lazy, slow, post-love-making kissing. It was unhurried, thorough. No rush, only savoring each individual sensation. Maybe Mercedes could've convinced him to go for round two – a continuation of last night – if it hadn't been for two things:

One, her cell phone went off.

Two, _his_ cell phone went off.

While hers was just a simple text, his was a ringtone. A loud, funky kind of tune – the generic kind that came programmed in the phone. She ignored her phone, so she assumed he'd ignore his.

She pulled him in for another kiss, when he scrambled off of her to answer the phone. He flipped it open and saw the number calling. Then he went into somewhat of a panic. Albeit, a cute panic, but a panic nonetheless.

"Oh god," he groaned. He looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. "Oh _no._" He was even attractive when he was freaking out. Where was the justice?

"What is it?" she asked, sitting up.

"Is that really the time?" he asked her.

"What?" She looked at the clock. "Oh, no. I set my clock five minutes early. I don't like being late."

Sam was running around the apartment gathering his scattered clothes. His pants were on the kitchen island, his shirt was in the bathroom hanging on the stall of the shower, his jacket was on the couch, his shoes were no where to be found. Let's just say they had gotten _around_ last night.

"Hey," she called to him, pointing to a shoe dangling from a lamp. The other was actually nestled _inside_ the lamp shade, which was facing upwards.

"You'd think I'd remember that," he mumbled as he went to retrieve them.

"You're sure you can't stay for some breakfast?" she asked with a hint of suggestion.

He shook his head. "I have to, uh, go. I'm have to catch up on some last minute paperwork today and I don't want to be late. I have to run back to my place and get a change of clothes, get…"

His phone rang again. He rolled over on the bed – oh yeah, she could see how he used to be a stripper – and grabbed it before running to the door. "I have to take this," he explained. "It's work related." He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. "I'll see you at work. We'll have lunch," he promised before dashing off.

She got up to close the door behind him. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd missed something important. Had she done something wrong?

* * *

><p>"White Chocolate here," Sam purred into the phone as soon as he was far enough away. "Oh, baby, you know I can't stay away for long." He listened to the response of the person on the other end. "I was thinking about you <em>all night long.<em> Yeah, about all the things I was going to do to you. God, I'd fuck you so hard." Another pause. "Just like that, yeah. I'd do it just the way you like it." He covered the receiver with his hand and looked heavenward.

Sometimes it _sucked_ to be him.

"I'd lick you up and down. Yeah, baby, you know how I can use my tongue. Yes, I'd do that. I'd kiss your neck until I left a mark so that everyone could see you've been a naughty, naughty girl…" Sometimes putting on an act was harder than it seemed.

He was on the phone the rest of the walk home. When he hung up he felt wrong; dirty. He felt absolutely disgusted with himself.

The phone rang again – that same, annoying disco-like beat. He answered the phone to a different person this time.

"Hey, baby. Oh you know I was thinking about you…"

* * *

><p><em>AN: Can I just say how fun it was to write Sam and Mercedes' interactions. Because it was. Are we sensing a pattern here yet? Also, Puck's head is a great place to be._

**_Review and make my day, lovelies!_**


	3. Chapter 3

"You're here, you're here!" the little boy screeched as soon as the front door swung open.

There were the light thuds of his sock-covered feet pitter-pattering against the wooden floorboards.

"_Whoa,_ slow down there," Sugar warned, throwing her arms out to catch him as he slid the last few feet right into her legs.

He ignored her and threw his arms around her waist – as high as they could reach – giving her a warm hug. That was it for greetings because then he was pulling her by the hand to the kitchen.

"I thought you'd _never_ get here," he told her. "I've been waiting all day long!"

She laughed. "Parker, it's only six thirty in the morning."

He shook his head and insisted, "No, I've been waiting all day long. I need your help!"

"I know, I know," she told him. "That's why your grandpa called me. You need help making your Valentines and then Aunty Sugar's gotta take your adorable butt to school."

"Sugar," came Burt's relieved voice. He came up behind her from the foyer with a hand extended. He shook her hand warmly in that way only he could. "I can't thank you enough for coming over so early on such short notice."

"Oh, you know I'd so anything for my Parker here," she told him, ruffling the little boy's light brown hair. "And it doesn't hurt that you're paying me either," she joked.

Burt laughed along with her. "I'm just so grateful that you were able to be here so that I can take Carole out for breakfast. We planned on walking to the diner - just like we used to."

"Say no more," she ordered. "Get your romantic fanny out of here and sweep that woman off her feet," she said with a wink. "But don't keep her out all night, you hear?"

"Who knows, maybe we'll make a day out of it."

"You kids and your dates. Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Hummel. I'll be dropping off and picking up Parker from school today and I'll stay with him for as long as you'll allow me to before kicking me out."

"No hot date tonight?" he teased.

She blushed. "Well, I _may _have something set up. But we can talk about that later – you're keeping a perfectly good woman waiting! Go beat the morning rush!"

"Thank you again," he told her before retreating down the hall.

Sugar turned around to see that _the_ biggest craft explosion on the face of the planet had imploded on top of the kitchen table. It was a battlefield of pink, red, and white construction paper, markers, crayons, glue sticks and bottles, tube after tube of glitter, and stickers. At least one of each item had nestled itself in Parker's hair sometime in the last five minutes.

"Kid, _what_ am I going to do with you?"

He looked up from his scribbling. "_Help_ me! I have to make the biggest and bestest, most romantic Valentine ever!"

"Oh, is that so?" she asked as she pulled out a chair and sat next to him. She began delicately picking the glitter and scraps of paper out of his hair. "You got a crush or something, P?" She waggled her eyebrows at him. "Who's the lucky gal?"

He turned as red as the paper he was cutting a heart out of. "No one," he said loudly. "Girls are gross. Besides, this one's for Daddy."

"Ah," Sugar said. "Let me give you a hand."

"Sugar, why couldn't we have just bought the Valentines in the store?" he asked her. "Those really cool ones with the Transformers on them? They were sparkly."

"Your teacher sent home a letter specifically saying he was encouraging you all to make your own cards. To _express your creativity,_" she explained slowly for the fifth time. Secretly, she thought the teacher must've been some kind of sadistic jerk. "There are even _cooler_ than the Transformers cards, don't you think?"

"No," he huffed. His fingers were stuck together from excess use of glue. "These are so lame."

"_Parker,_" Sugar warned. She took personal offense to this, seeing as how she was the one who'd been helping him for the past couple of days.

He scowled. "Fine, they're not _so_ bad."

"And look," Sugar told him, reaching across the table. "Your grandparents were nice enough to go out and buy you some candy to put in envelopes. That way when you pass them out, everyone will think you're _really_ cool because you gave them candy."

He shook his head. "Yeah right. They'll just rip it off the card and then throw the card away.

Sugar shrugged. She had to agree with that point, but she wouldn't admit it. "Look, it's going to be great. You're going to get so many Valentines because I bet everyone wants you to be _their_ Valentine. I know I want you to be mine." She pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"That's not true," he told her. "My teacher gave us a list of everybody's name so that we would know how to spell them. Because we have to give _everyone_ a Valentine. It's _required._"

"Oh, nice use of vocab," Sugar said, holding out her fist for a bump. Parker obliged. "Is that a spelling word this week?"

"Last week," he told her.

"Okay, how do you spell 'Valentine'?"

"I've only spelt it five _bajillion_ times," he scoffed. "V-a-l-e-n-t-i-n-e."

"You're golden, kid."

The TV in the corner of the kitchen had been on the whole time, but Sugar looked up just in time to see the next story broadcasting on the news - some sorry stiff in a suit interviewing people on the street about Valentine's Day. How she pitied him.

"Hello again, this is Noah Puckerman with the highly sought-after singing gram, Bailey Franco." He turned to the even _more_ pathetic woman (she didn't know such a think was possible) accompanying him. She was dressed as cupid, complete with a horrendous diaper, a toga that was stained, and tacky wings. "So how is business for you on this happy day?" he asked her.

Sugar thought he sounded a little forced.

The woman onscreen turned towards the camera and smiled. "Valentine's Day is the busiest day of the year for singing grams," she told him. "Why, it's barely seven in the morning and I've already delivered a break-up gram!"

"You heard her folks," Noah told the camera. "If you need to start a new relationship – or end one – you know who to call. Back to you, Amanda."

Sugar snickered as she saw his collected grin crumple into an annoyed frown the split second before the cameras switched over. Poor guy.

"He must _really_ hate his job," she muttered to herself before picking up the remote and shutting off the television.

"Come on, Parker, it's time to get you out of those pajamas and into your school clothes."

"I can dress myself!" he informed her haughtily.

She crossed her arms. "Fine, but you can't leave until I okay your outfit."

"_Sugar,_" he groaned.

"Chop chop, mister," she told him. "We can't have you being late for school!"

* * *

><p>Kurt looked back at Jesse's closed apartment door where he'd kissed his wonderful surgeon-boyfriend goodbye just a minute ago. He turned around and pressed the button for the elevator and waited patiently.<p>

_No more looking back,_ he told himself.

The elevator opened, revealing the sound of light, classical music tinkling through the speakers and floating out through the separating doors. There was no one else on the floor waiting to go down so he stepped inside and pressed the button to close the door.

He pressed the button for the lobby then stepped back. He adjusted the cuff on the sleeve of his dress shirt, thankful that Jesse was thoughtful enough to keep a space in his closet for him - for those nights when Kurt just didn't feel like going home. He was messing with his necktie (artfully dotted with tiny hearts just for this day) when the elevator stopped about halfway down.

The doors opened and Kurt looked down as he stepped aside. When he looked back up, he expected to see a human being giving him that awkward hello-I've-just-walked-into-an-elevator-that-you-were-previously-occupying-alone-and-now-we'll-be-standing-on-opposite-sides-of-this-small-box-for-the-continuation-of-the-ride smile. But no. He got a faceful of _fur._

The fur of the single most _enormous_ teddy bear, to be precise. It was clutching a heart that proclaimed "I Love You" over its chest. It was almost half the size of the girl lugging it into the elevator, that was for sure. Kurt saw her skinny legs beneath the stuffed animal before she set it down with a loud exhale.

"Whew," she said, blowing the blonde bangs out of her face. "Hello!"

"Good morning," Kurt replied politely with a tight smile.

She didn't push the button to close the door, so they stood awkwardly next to each other with the bear between them on the floor for a few long minutes. Finally the elevator bell dinged and the doors slid shut before resuming the long decent downwards.

"So do you, like, _live_ here?" she asked him. "Because I see you all the time."

He adjusted the strap of the bag on his shoulder as he turned to face her. She looked young but not _that _young. But one thing was for sure: Oh _God,_ she was way too peppy than was acceptable for this hour of the morning. And without any form of caffeine in her hand either.

"No, I don't live here," he told her. "I'm just, uh, visiting. Visiting a friend." He didn't know why he didn't say 'boyfriend', but the moment had passed.

"That's awesome," she told him with a wide smile. "I'm Brittany." A short pause. "I live here."

Kurt nodded and turned back to face the doors again.

Another long, awkward pause.

"So," she told him. "I get a call this morning, right? It's from my girlfriend." She smiled even wider at the word 'girlfriend'. Kurt could tell that he'd misjudged her, so he nodded and listened to her. "And she was all, 'Look outside your door.' So I do, you know? But my girlfriend…she was no where to be found. But there's this - "

"The bear," Kurt finished for her. "That's really, really sweet."

"Isn't that just the nicest thing ever?" She looked thrilled – ecstatic. She clapped her hands together.

Kurt nodded and gave her a tight smile. He had no gift to show for this day. "Ever and ever."

The doors slid open. "Okay, I'm going to go to school now," she told him unnecessarily.

"You're still in school?" he asked conversationally as he helped her pick up the large bear.

"Oh, no," she replied. "I'm the dance teacher at the high school."

"And you're going to carry this around all day?"

"Uh, _yeah,_" she said. "Goodbye! I hope you get lots of Valentines!"

He waved to her and watched the teddy bear bouncing as she ran towards the exit.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Nick!" Kurt greeted the nearest employee as he walked through the back ally behind the flower shop.<p>

"Kurt!" he called. "How are you, man? Any plans for this evening?"

Kurt laughed. "No, but I'll keep you in mind."

"Ha ha," he said sarcastically. "You know _I_ have plans."

"Unless those plans include Blaine giving you overtime, I suggest you get back to work," he teased.

He walked through the back garage where the delivery trucks where parked and getting loaded for the busy day. Anyone else would've gotten escorted out, but Kurt was well-known here. He knew all the names of every single employee and his name was shouted out as he passed by. He shook hands and exchanged hugs and small talk.

"Tina!" he squealed as he ran up behind his friend and encased her in a big, bear hug – the kind that included swaying. "How are you on this lovely morning?"

"_Tired,_" she moaned. "Is it quitting time yet?"

"Darling, the day hasn't even started," he said in his best English accent. "Besides, you get to spend all day long with Mike. How did you guys get to be so lucky, working together?"

She laughed. "Lucky or stupid?"

"Come _on,_ Tina," he reprimanded. "It's Valentine's Day! Go crazy and hijack a delivery van and take him out for lunch or clock out early and go for a romantic dinner," he mooned. "You know Blaine would let you – you guys are like his best friends."

She sighed. "I know. But today's the biggest day of the year. He needs us."

"You know there's always sneaking off to make out in the supply closet as a last resort," Kurt teased.

Tina swatted his arm. "Kurt! What are we, teenagers?"

"You know what they say: act like an adult, love like a teenager."

She crossed her arms over her bright pink uniform shirt. "Who says that?"

He shrugged. "I do."

Then he caught sight of Mike so he gave Tina one last squeeze before running to catch him.

"Mike!" he called. He waved to Kurt and waited up for him. "Where's Blaine? He wanted to meet me."

They walked together through the door connecting the backrooms and the shop. "Oh yeah, I think he's in the café."

"Well, what is it? How is he?" Kurt pressed. "He left me a message and it sounded a little…frantic."

"That's Blaine," Mike joked. "Typical."

"Come on, Mike," Kurt pleaded. "How is he? Is something wrong?"

Mike just grinned at him as he put together an arrangement of flowers.

"I _know_ you know, Mike. He tells you everything. Should I be worried?"

Mike put a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "Now _there's_ a loaded question."

"_Michael_…"

"You'll see," was all he'd say.

Kurt shook his head and walked towards the café.

There was the main shop – already with a line going out the door – and a little archway that led into the café. Of course, if you were coming in from the street, there was a whole other door if you just wanted to get in and out for a cup of coffee. But Kurt wasn't coming in from the street, so he had to part the tacky bead strips of pink and red hearts that were adorning the archway. You know, those seventies, hippie excuses for doors. They clinked against one another as he passed through.

Little cut-outs of angels with bows and arrows were dangling from the ceiling. Hearts were stuck everywhere, everything had a little dash of pink or red. Cookies were iced to say "I Love You" and "Be My V-tine". The windows were painted with scenes of love and signs shouted out promotional sales for two – Buy one coffee, get one free. Just for your sweetheart.

Kurt just smiled at all the hubbub and looked around to find Blaine.

And there he was, silly as ever, behind the counter, mixing coffee, and pulling scones out of the oven. There were other employees manning the cashiers and actual, _certified_ baristas brewing coffee and making fancy patterns with the whipped cream. But Blaine was in there all the same, lending a hand. He looked especially ridiculous with his bright pink hoodie on top of his pink shirt. His hair still looked wet from his morning shower.

Kurt walked around the steadily growing line and walked up to the segment of counter where Blaine was standing behind.

"Hey," he greeted with a smile. "What's up?"

"Kurt! Oh nothing, nothing," Blaine said.

Well, he didn't _look_ upset.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asked him. "Is something wrong? Do I have to punch someone in the face?"

"_What?_" Blaine looked up from where he'd been placing scones and muffins to cool on a rack in the display case. "No, nothing's wrong. Why would something be wrong?"

"You just…left a message on my phone and you sounded a little…weird?" Kurt tried. "So I thought that maybe Jeremiah…"

"Said he loved me?" Blaine prompted. "He said he loved me!"

"Oh!" Kurt said, letting the situation dawn on him. "Oh, _alright._ Well that's great! That's great news!"

"What, did everybody think he was going to dump me or something?" Blaine asked. "Mike sounded the same way you do - Don't deny it, you know I can see right through you, Kurt - and then I get here and Tina hands me a tissue…"

"Maybe you still had some gunk in your eye."

"Very romantic," Blaine replied. "Come on," he told Kurt, gathering up a few things and ducking under the counter. "Come sit with me."

Kurt obliged and followed him to a table right in front of the window – _their_ table. He picked up the coffee cup Blaine had set in front of him along with his favorite heart-shaped cookies. "You know my coffee order," he teased. He'd been saying it for years, but it was still funny.

Blaine sipped his own coffee. "Of course I do. How could I not? I've probably sold you more coffee than anyone else in this city."

"Well how am I expected to _teach_ without any caffeine in my system?" Kurt asked.

Blaine just shook his head. "So talk to me. It feels like it's been forever since we talked."

"Blaine, we talked yesterday," Kurt laughed. "And every day before that for the past six years!"

"Yesterday we talked on the phone," Blaine corrected him. "It's hardly the same."

"You're a full-time job, you are."

"So tell me about Jesse," Blaine begged. "Do you two have any plans for tonight?"

Kurt's jaw clenched and he looked out the window. "Unfortunately _not._ He has to work."

"Come on, bullshit," Blaine said. "No one has to work on Valentine's Day."

Kurt gave him a pointed look.

"Okay, I have to. But I'm a florist!"

"And he's a _surgeon._ Illness doesn't take a holiday, Blaine."

Blaine pounded his fist on the table. "And love doesn't take a holiday either!"

Kurt sat back in his chair. "Think about that sentence Blaine. Think really, _really_ hard."

Blaine just narrowed his eyes and took a quick sip of his coffee, consequently burning his tongue. Kurt could see him wince and press his tongue against the inside of his cheek as if he were determined not to let Kurt see that his hastiness wasn't too well thought through.

"So, tell me about_ Jer-Bear,_" Kurt said coolly, changing the subject.

Blaine gave him an incredulous look. "Jer-Bear?"

"Yeah, I've been calling him Jer-Bear in my mind for about a year now, so I just thought I'd share it with you from here on out."

"Okay, what _about_ Jeremiah?"

"Tell me how this morning went," Kurt said, leaning closer to Blaine. "I know you were nervous."

"Nervous? That's the understatement of the _year_…"

He launched into detail about how he woke up freaking out and how he wanted to take a shower, but he was afraid it would wake up Jeremiah. And how he wanted to make himself a cup of coffee, but he knew that would only make him even more jittery. He told Kurt about making Jeremiah breakfast in bed and how the moment just came and that he'd said everything he wanted to. He gave Kurt the exact speech he'd given Jeremiah, verbatim.

Kurt _wanted_ to be happy for him, he really did. But there was a vice grip in his chest, like a thick vine wrapping its thorny tentacles around his heart. He could feel how sharply his jaw was set and he tried to relax, but ended up letting out a sigh.

"Kurt?" Blaine asked, pulling him out of his reverie. His hand was laid across Kurt's, squeezing it lightly. "Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?"

"No," Kurt said quickly – too quickly. "No, not at all. I guess I'm just…_jealous_."

Blaine lifted an eyebrow. "Jealous? Of _me?_"

"Of you, of _Jer-Bear_…" Blaine grunted, but Kurt ignored him. "I'm so _envious_ of your relationship."

Blaine looked confused. "You are?"

Kurt picked at the sprinkles on his cookie. "You're so…_stable._ Secure. You're so sure about one another. I'm so sick of _dating,_" he exclaimed. "I just want to have something steady already."

"Hey," Blaine said softly, holding Kurt's hand again. "You have Jesse. Or should I start calling him Jesse-Wesse?"

It worked, Kurt cracked a smile. "Yeah, but we're not exclusive. At least he hasn't said so and I haven't asked."

"You've been dating for, what, like six months?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Okay. And you've been with Jer-Bear for over a year now. And you're barely telling him you love him."

"It was romantic," Blaine mumbled. "You know I've never said it to anyone – it's a big deal."

"No, it totally is," Kurt replied, nodding sympathetically. "That's what makes you such a cheeseball."

Blaine glared at Kurt as the latter took a sip of his coffee.

"_Romantic,_" he repeated, jabbing his coffee cup in Kurt's direction. "Speaking of romance, when do I get to meet this fabled 'Jesse' anyways?"

"He's not _fabled,_" Kurt said, "He's just a very busy man."

"Uh huh, sure," Blaine said, sounding smug. "Busy being a figment of your imagination."

Kurt shook his head and snuck a look at his watch. "_Shit._"

"Inflammatory language," Blaine called. Kurt glowered at him. "What? You teach kids. You should be conscious of your language."

"I'm not even going to grace that with a response," Kurt sniffed. "I'm going to be late for class."

"Now make sure you have your lunch and be sure to play nice with the other children," Blaine teased.

Kurt laughed. "I can't make any promises. Not on a day like today."

Before he got up, Blaine said one last thing. "But seriously, Kurt, I think you should find Jesse. Tonight. Tell him how you feel. Do something special."

"He's out of town," Kurt pointed out.

Blaine waved him away as if it didn't matter in the slightest. "So get your ass a ticket, hop on a plane, and go meet him."

"Blaine…Normal people just don't _do_ things like that."

Another shrug. "It's Valentine's Day. You don't think, you just do."

He got up before Kurt, placing his hands on either one of his shoulders. "Think about it."

"I don't know…"

"Go to school and think about it," Blaine ordered.

"Fine," Kurt pouted. He collected his things, storing his cookies – neatly folded in a heart covered napkin – in his bag, his coffee in hand.

"Look, if worse comes to worse, you can come over to my place. We'll watch terribly romantic eighties movies and stuff ourselves full of clearance-rack candy until we puke."

"Don't you have plans with you're smitten Jer-Bear?" Kurt asked.

Blaine shrugged. "You know I'd cancel them to be with you. Just swing back around the shop after school if you still need a pep talk."

Kurt put his coffee down on the table, got up, and gave Blaine a warm hug – the kind that required both hands. He smiled when he felt Blaine's arms go around him too, returning that same warmth and welcoming. It was like home.

"Thank you," he murmured. "You're the best," he said when he had Blaine back at arm's length.

"Go. You'll be late."

"So responsible," Kurt joked. But he grabbed his cup, gave Blaine one last wave, then was out the door.

He was giving Blaine's idea some thought as he punched in a familiar number on his phone. Maybe he'd actually go through with it after all. Maybe he needed a second opinion.

* * *

><p><em>AN: As always, writing Kurt and Blaine brings me way too much happiness to be a) legal, b) healthy, or c) legal._

_I hope you guys are enjoying this so far - I am! I have to go back to writing the chapter I'm working on right now, but I will be uploading the next two or three chapters sometime tomorrow - we'll see when. I'm kind of playing this by ear, so I hope you all like it so far! I know it's AU, but that's kind of what I adore about it. 'Til tomorrow!_

_**Pretty please leave me a review?**  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

Finn had lost his sense of time. That was the funny thing about flying – you cross so many time zones and follow the sun as it travels west that you lose track of what time it is, what day it is, or what continent you're flying over.

And if you're like Finn and you've brought nothing but one change of clothes with you and no companion either, then you don't have very much to do to keep yourself occupied. So somewhere along the line he did what any normal, rational human being would do on a fourteen hour flight: he fell asleep.

The intercom told him somewhere between dreams that there were six hours left, but it made no difference to him. He was facing towards the window when he was last coherent, but somewhere along the line he'd slumped into the shoulder of the passenger next to him.

How did he know this, you ask? It might've been how he was shaken awake to see a hand stretched out across his body, reaching for something.

He sat up straight, pulling his blanket up to his chin as if he'd been caught naked. Of course, he was fully clothed (though not lucid), his head back against the seat as far as it would go.

"What are you doing?" he asked the back of the seat in front of him. He was sitting rigidly and he refused to look at the man next to him, who'd abruptly lowered his arm.

The man cleared his throat awkwardly. "The window," he answered. "I was shutting the window."

Finn nodded curtly and closed the himself, interrupting the sunbeam he could see was inconveniencing the passenger beside him. He straightened out his uniform, wiped the dried drool from the corner of his mouth and kept looking straight ahead.

"So," the stranger began uncertainly, as if they were obligated to speak now that he'd violated Finn's right to personal space. "Are you on active duty?"

_What gave it away?_ Finn thought to himself. _Surely not the army uniform._ He wasn't much of a morning person - or...whatever time it was.

"Yes, sir," he answered with practiced courtesy.

Using his peripheral vision, he saw the young man nod to himself. Finn was trained in tact and he could see many things without really looking at all. Like, for instance, how the man had no wedding ring on his left hand, yet he boarded a plane wearing a three-piece suit. He could see that the man had light blonde hair, but his roots were really a rich black color. He could tell from the man's breathing pattern that he'd been sleeping before the window incident and also that he might have a minor heart condition unbeknownst to him.

He could tell that his eyes were a hazel color without looking and that he must've eaten something before falling asleep, judging by the layer of crumbs adorning the inside of collar of his shirt. He could deduce this man's age, his occupation, his preferences, his height, all from using his peripherals. He'd been trained well. He observed all this in about five seconds flat before flickering his eyes elsewhere.

"Are you flying in for Valentine's Day? To spend the day with the person you love?"

Finn relaxed a little. "Sort of, yes."

"That's wonderful," the stranger commented. "Call me hopeless, but that's dead romantic." There was a short pause. "So how long do you have until you have to go back?"

Finn sighed. "Tomorrow."

"Wow," the man said, turning to look at Finn. "A fourteen hour flight up and back just for one night. Now that's what I call love."

"I'd do anything for this one," Finn answered simply.

"I admire you," was the reply.

Finn smiled back. "Thanks."

* * *

><p><em>9:27 am<em>

Jesse St. James.

You had to say it like that. You couldn't just say 'Jesse James' - it left out the most important part of the diction. His patients all called him 'Dr. St. James.' Either that or he encouraged them to use his full name: Jesse St. James. That's just how it was.

He rolled down the driver's side window and let his fingers drum against the silver paint job of his car. It was one of those models that you can't say out loud without drawing a gasp from someone's lips. It cost more than he liked to admit – he should've been ashamed at how much cash he'd shucked out to buy this vehicle - but with a salary like his, he had cash to burn. All accessories were expendable, people included.

He had no passion for health – not _really_. He was emotionless towards the plight of the sick, which in theory made him ideal surgeon material. Of course, he felt the _responsibility_ of life and death whenever a body was on his gurney, but he had no qualms with walking out of the OR to deliver bad news if the situation ever arose. People died - it happened.

He didn't _always_ know that he wanted to go to medical school and come out a cardiologist. He didn't know if there were people who actually did – there probably were. But he wasn't one of them. When he was in college, he changed majors like people changed underwear. One semester he was into kinesthesiology, the next he'd have his hands in biology so he could be an orthodontist, the next semester he'd aspire to be a chef to the stars, to go to Parson's and study design, to fly out to Julliard and get a degree in theater. He'd major in physics and not have a clue what in the hell he'd do with that degree, he'd study to be an engineer, he'd have interests in sociology, psychology, astronomy, the languages, the arts, even math.

You get the picture.

He was good at _everything._ The problem wasn't that he failed out – in fact, he was notorious for getting A's and showing up every other class session – but that he just couldn't make up his mind. He wanted to be everything and nothing. He wanted to have his feet in every subject for the rest of his life. He just wanted to _learn_ – that's who he was. He had the aptitude to become whoever he wanted to be; he just had to choose a path.

So after his parents got on his case, he chose. He didn't choose because he had a burning passion to cut people open and stick his hands in their chests. He chose to go off to medical school because he _could._ He was in the small percent of students who could make it.

And he knew it.

For him, it was always making the decisions that killed him. But once he knew what he was doing, he was fighter. All the other applicants should've been scared of _him,_ not the odds, because he was going to come out on top. Always. No exceptions.

It took him years upon years to get through college, to take all the entry tests, to gain his acceptance, to actually attend his classes and get all of his degrees, training, more tests, and so on and so forth. But finally –_ finally_ – he'd gotten to where he was now: one of the best surgeons in the state working at a hospital where his word was basically law.

That was the dream – _that_ was why he did it; the wealth, the power, but most of all the _prestige._ You'd be surprised how fast a girl's panties would drop when she heard the words "I'm a surgeon". He couldn't tell you how many heart-related pick up lines he'd swallowed over the years and how many men _and_ women wanted to be on his arm - that alone was an illustrious position.

When he told people his occupation, he could see them stand up a little straighter, pay him a little more attention, and try annoyingly hard to make him laugh a little more. They wanted to be on his good side _so badly_ because of what he did – not who he was. In many ways, his job defined how people saw him, but he didn't really care. Like he said: expendable. Nothing was ever permanent; friends, patients, or lovers.

That's how he could afford this whole scheme – this whole _power play_ with Kurt. It didn't hurt that the man was a teacher either, because _damn_ Jesse had so many fantasies about taking him on a desk, asking for a detention, or something. That was the beauty of it: he could have Kurt over whenever he wanted…at his _apartment._ But after Kurt got out of bed and flounced his very nice looking ass over to work, Jesse could get up and drive back home.

To his wife.

The wife he'd told Kurt that he'd divorced? Yeah, that wife.

That's where he was headed right at this very moment, in fact. He was driving in his car, the speakers blazing, and the windows rolled down, donning his sunglasses and designer brand clothes.

He was at a stop sign in the midst of the upper-side suburbs – the kind with the two and three-story houses with insane amounts of square footage - when his iPhone started buzzing from where he'd thrown it on the passenger seat.

Jesse saw the name on the screen and rolled his eyes. Boyfriends. They were so _clingy._

But still he turned down the music and reached over to accept the call.

"Kurt, hey," he said in his bright, surgeon-y voice. The kind he used when children came up to him to ask if he'd save their parents. "What's up?"

"Nothing, the kids are playing so I thought I'd shoot you a call. I just wanted to run something by you…"

Jesse tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear. "Look, babe, I love you, but I'm _just_ pulling into the airport right now."

He stuck his phone out of the window as he began to pick up speed to make it sound like there were airplanes departing and returning. He brought the phone back to his ear.

"I can't hear you, Kurt, you'll have to speak up!" he shouted

"Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you," Kurt apologized quickly, sounding sheepish over the line. Fretting as always. "Just have a safe flight. I'll talk to you later."

"Will do. Love you," Jesse said as he rounded the corner.

Kurt sighed on the other end of the conversation. "Love you too. Bye."

Jesse ended the call and threw the phone back where it had been before just as he pressed the button to open the iron-wrought gate in front of his home. It slid open and he drove up the long driveway to park right next to the door. He killed the engine. He dug around in the cupholder and found his silver wedding band, slipping it into place on his left hand as if it'd been there the whole time.

Ah, home sweet home.

* * *

><p><em>7:42am<em>

"Jeremiah?" Blaine repeated back to Mike. "_Here?_ In the shop? Now?"

"_Yes,_ here," Mike said again. "He's waiting for you in the café."

Blaine was skeptical but he followed his best friend back out into the madness that was the showroom and made his way to the café. Sure enough, there was Jeremiah, sitting by the window and looking outside.

The thing was, all morning long Blaine had felt this buzz beneath his skin – like the day held all these romantic possibilities and he was a part of all of them indirectly. He'd been on a love-high, saying hello to perfect strangers and being even more kind to everyone he met than usual. He gave everyone discounts and handed out free scones to early bird couples. He had an extra spring in his step and Jeremiah in his mind. Sure, the morning wasn't yet over, but he knew he could maintain this level of joy for the rest of his life if he paced himself correctly. That's just how he _was._

But Jeremiah…_he_ didn't look very happy. He looked troubled. Just the sight of him forlornly gazing out the window made Blaine's heart shrink. It was like there was a balloon of happiness in his chest and seeing Jeremiah looking so _un_thrilled was somebody sticking a pin inside of it; now it was slowly seeping out air and deflating. _Blaine_ was deflating.

"Jeremiah!" he greeted happily, as if he wasn't bothered by the other man's affect in the slightest.

Jeremiah put on a smile that didn't quite ring sincere. He stood up and gave Blaine a quick kiss on the lips – just an immediate, small amount of pressure, then it was over.

"Awwww," Mike chorused from behind the counter. "Aren't you two sweet?" He turned to Tina, who was passing through with an armful of flowers. "Aren't they sweet, Tina?"

"The cutest," Tina said whilst pulling a face of disgust.

Mike joined her in her fake gagging. Blaine glared at him, but Mike just mimed hanging himself with a colorful string of confetti that said "love, love, love" over and over again.

"What's up?" he asked casually, turning back to Jeremiah.

Blaine sat down at the table he and Kurt had shared not too long ago. It felt different though, sitting there with Jeremiah. Not like _he_ was out of place, but like _Jeremiah_ was out of place. He realized it was completely out of the ordinary to see him ever set foot in the flower shop – he wasn't sure if Jeremiah had actually ever even been there before, now that he came to think of it.

Was he mad at Blaine? Was he going to break up with him? More importantly, why were these the first scenarios that popped into Blaine's mind? He felt the panic spreading through him from those cancerous assumptions; maybe he'd been too presumptuous. Maybe he'd jumped the gun. Maybe he'd been going to fast or maybe he'd –

"Nothing," Jeremiah answered with a small smile. "Can't a man come see his boyfriend in action every once in a while?"

Blaine blushed. "Well I'm not really in action at this _particular_ moment…But I thought you had to go into work. Didn't you have a meeting?"

"Yes, I do," he answered. He reached into his back pocket and pulled something out. "But you forgot this."

Blaine looked down at the folded leather item in Jeremiah's palm: his wallet.

"Aw, man," Blaine groaned, taking the wallet from him. "I totally forgot all about that."

He flipped through it, seeing his license, his ID, his work ID, his credit cards, his cash. He closed it and shoved it in his pocket before reaching across the table to clutch Jeremiah's hand in thanks.

"I definitely would've been missing that. I'd be so _screwed_ without you," he confessed. "Thank you."

Jeremiah pulled away abruptly, taking his hand from Blaine's grip and shielding it with his own, folded neatly in his lap. "It's nothing," he replied sullenly. "Just thought you'd need it."

Blaine was hurt by his sudden brashness, like he couldn't wait to get away from the shop quickly enough - from _him._ "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, nothing's wrong," Jeremiah answered, but he was looking out of the window again, avoiding Blaine's gaze at all costs. "Look, I have to go." He gave Blaine a small smile, got up, and walked out of the door - just like that.

Blaine's mouth was open to say something, but he just watched Jeremiah leave and continued following him with his eyes as he passed by the very window he'd just been looking out of. Blaine watched as he pulled his jacket closer around him, hands tucked neatly in his pockets, as he briskly walked away.

Never looking back.

* * *

><p>Sugar pulled up next to the curb of the school. She shifted into 'park' and sat there, waiting for Parker to get out of the car.<p>

"Well, we're here, kiddo," she said. "What are you going to say to everyone who gives you a Valentine?"

"Thank you very much," Parker recited.

"Don't eat too much candy," she ordered. "If you're nice, I'll make you a special after-school snack."

"You're the best, Sugar," he said, leaning in to give her a hug.

She put her arms around him over the console. "Right back 'atcha." She sat back in her seat, patting down his hair where it stuck up in annoying cowlicks. "I'll be right back here at two thirty, so don't keep me waiting, you hear?"

"Are you going to stay with me all night long?" Parker asked, sounding hopeful. "You can help me with my homework and we can bake cookies and watch movies and stay up really late until my mom comes home."

Sugar's heart ached just hearing him ramble on about how much he desired her company. His mother was a full-time career woman and his father…well… "I'm going out with my boyfriend tonight to my family's annual Couples' Party, remember him?"

"The really funny, nice one? In the chair?"

She smiled at his description. "Yes. He's taking me out tonight. But if you need me…"

"No," he told her, putting on his brave face. "I'll be okay. You'll be at my house until you have to leave though, won't you?"

"Until the very last second," she promised. "Now go. And make sure to give your teacher that Valentine we made especially for him."

He nodded and got out of the car, his backpack full of cards and candy for his fellow classmates. He had his lunchbox in hand and he was closing the door to the car before he ran across the lawn to the steps of the school.

Sugar looked after Parker, watching as he met up with a group of his friends, gesticulating widely as he retold some story she'd probably heard ten times already. Just then, the bell rang and all the kids began pouring inside. She turned the key in her ignition, looking up one last time.

He looked back to her when he was on the top step. He waved to her frantically as if she couldn't spot him amidst the crowd of children. She waved back at him. Then he disappeared inside.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sorry about that guys! I wasn't home at all yesterday so I couldn't get online to update. But I'm putting up the next two chapters now and maybe the next two chapters later. To make it up to you guys, I am being defiant and using school equipment to upload this as we speak. My rebellious actions go to show you that I take this very seriously ;D_

_I'm glad you guys are enjoying it so far - y'all make it worthwhile and I take your support to heart (:_

**_Pretty please leave me a review!_**


	5. Chapter 5

_7:00am_

Mercedes was in the mailroom, sorting through everyone's business - what _else_ was new? It wasn't her favorite job in the world - no one's dream job, by any means - but it helped with the rent.

By night, she was a highly demanded jazz singer. Clubs, lounges, and high-end bars paid her damn good money to come in at night and be the entertainment. She also did weddings, parties; wherever there was music needed, she was there. But she needed another, more stable job to sustain her apartment.

Of course, she could chase her dream and live in a cardboard box on the street instead. But indoor plumbing won _that_ argument every time.

So here she was, sorting through the inter-office memos, organizing the incoming mail, putting what needed to be put in people's boxes, and loading up her cart to deliver urgently marked envelopes or packages to the employees.

No it wasn't glamorous, but it was kind of fun. The hours were sometimes grueling, requiring her to get up at the crack of dawn, going late enough sometimes so that she was dragging herself straight from the office to her latest gig without a break. It was mindless work that paid easy money, so she wasn't going to complain (much). Plus she had built a repertoire with all of the employees and her coworkers in the mailroom. There were some perks after all.

Like how she could find herself in the mailroom and on her cell phone at the same time and no one would write her up.

"I just don't understand," she said into the phone as she organized a few piles of papers. "Last night was _amazing_ and then this morning, he can't get out of the door fast enough!"

"You said he had to work…"

"He works _here,_" Mercedes hissed. "In this office. We should've had breakfast and walked to work together."

Kurt scoffed on the other line. "Yeah, okay. Maybe in your world."

"You mean the world where good things happen to me?"

"Yeah, that's not really where we live."

"_Kurt,_" Mercedes nearly shouted. "Look, the point is that I don't know what to do here! I'm way out of my depth and I was hoping you – yes, you of all people who've landed a _surgeon boyfriend_ – could help me out."

Kurt laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. You can make it up to him tonight, can't you?"

She frowned. "…No. I have to work tonight. I'm booked at three different lounges, one after another…"

"Mercedes," Kurt cut in. "Do you _know_ what today is?"

"Tuesday?" she tried.

Kurt stayed silent. "Is that a bad joke?"

It was her turn to be quiet.

She could hear him shifting the phone from one ear to the next. "Well no wonder he ran away – it's Valentine's Day! And you didn't even remember!"

Mercedes put down the envelopes she was holding. There was a long pause before she burst out laughing. "No it's not," she told Kurt, "Valentine's Day is always on a Friday, isn't it? Or on the weekend?"

It was Kurt who burst out laughing then. "Don't we all _wish._"

She stopped laughing. "Wait…but I thought guys didn't really care about that kind of stuff."

She could practically _hear_ Kurt rolling his eyes and see the way he looked heavenward and set his jaw. "Of _course_ we do. It's a day that we're actually encouraged to show the people that we love that we _do_ in fact love them. Although, admittedly, _I_ do that every single day."

"But this thing with Sam and I is…relatively new…"

"So?" he countered. "You know he wants to spend this day with you."

"Shouldn't he be asking _me_ out on a date?" she asked. "I mean why isn't _he_ over _here_ groveling at my feet with a dozen red roses, begging me to go out with him tonight?"

"Are you going to make him ask your parents' permission to court you, too? Could I be your escort to make sure you don't get up to any funny business during your 'social intercourse'?" he asked sarcastically.

"Maybe it's a little old fashioned…"

Kurt snorted. "A _little._" She heard him sipping his morning coffee on the other end.

"Well what am I supposed to do?" she groaned. "I'm supposed to work and I really need the money - "

"Blow it off," Kurt told her. "Call in sick and, for the love of all that's holy, do something with Sam!"

"I don't have any ideas..."

"Go out to dinner."

"I don't have reservations and you know every restaurant worth visiting is booked up."

"Go to a movie. Isn't there a new romantic comedy out?"

She scoffed. "What, with all the other couples mating in the back row? I don't think so."

"_Be_ one of those couples mating in the back row."

"Kurt!"

"I was being serious," he preened. "Okay, invite him over and cook dinner. Pop in a movie and _don't_ watch it…"

"I'm hanging up," she threatened.

"No, no, wait!" he shouted. "I'm done. Look, we'll figure something out. Just go ask him out. Vaguely say, 'You want to go out tonight?'"

"I will," she promised. "But what about you? You told me yesterday that Jesse was going out of town tonight. I didn't know it was Valentine's Day, but now that I do…"

"Don't _worry_ about me," he said stiffly. "This won't be the first Valentine's Day I've spent alone."

"But this is the first time you've actually had someone."

"Rub it in," he muttered. "Go ahead, I don't think there's enough salt on the wound."

"I'm sorry, I just meant…" She thought carefully about her words. "What will you do? Maybe you and I could hang out. Come on," she began painting a picture for him, "We could have a girl's night in. We could order pizza and gorge ourselves on candy, sing karaoke."

"As tempting as that sounds, no," Kurt declined. "I don't need a pity date. You have your man, so go get him. Don't waste your night on me."

"Kurt, you're not a waste of time," she countered. "Don't talk like that."

Kurt emitted what sounded like a growl on the other line. "I don't need you looking after me tonight. I can take care of myself," he snapped. There was a tense pause. "I'm sorry, Mercedes. It's just that you're the second person to feel sorry for me. Blaine already offered to take me in for the night."

"Ah," she replied knowingly. "Well are you going to hang out with him then? So I can feel completely guiltless after I ask out Sam?"

"No," he answered quickly. "I don't know…" he backtracked. "Maybe. But that's not the point! I already have plans anyways, and if they go correctly, I will be stumbling home at one in the morning, plumb drunk and I will fall asleep on the couch because I'm so wasted. Then we can all move on tomorrow with a handful of asprin and forget about it."

"Oh yeah, you have that party to go to," she remembered.

He sighed. "I don't want to think _or_ talk about it until it's absolutely necessary," he told her. "But, yes, Blaine's offer is a little higher up on the list than yours. No offense."

"None taken," she assured him. "Speaking of _Blaine,_" Her voice dipped over his voice suggestively, the way she knew got on Kurt's nerves, "Where _is_ he this morning? You never call me on the way to work."

"Mercedes, It's Valentine's Day," he said slowly, letting that sink in again.

"Oh," she said. "Right. He's too busy to walk you to work today."

"Sadly, yes," he said forlornly. "But, on the upside, he gave me a coffee to go and I have a wonderful friend to call as I walk down the streets of the big, scary city."

"I'm flattered," she teased. "Well when you're not busy shaping the future generations, could you _please _text me and help me figure out what to do with Sam tonight?" She was so desperate, she thought she might be groveling if she was with him in person.

"What to _do_ with him?" Kurt asked, sounding amused. "Mercedes, you _naughty_ girl."

"I'm really hanging up now."

"I love you, too," he said before she clicked off the line.

* * *

><p>There was something to be said about temp jobs. They were comforting - if you were Sam Evans, that is.<p>

He had what teachers and employers like to call "charisma", "that bit of oomph," "je ne sais quoi". He had the ability to charm everyone and even when he kept to himself, people were just drawn to him.

He was never short of friends. Everyone always welcomed him with open arms and made him feel at home. He was never averse to leaving old friends behind either, settling into a different place, and making new ones. It was a cycle; it was familiar. It didn't scare him.

It wasn't that people were disposable, but he knew how to _navigate_ them. He could tell which ones to drop and which ones to keep with him. If he told somebody that he was going to keep in touch, _he was going to keep in touch_. That way, he was weeding out all of his acquaintances or so-so friendships and keeping the ones that really mattered.

Still, he didn't believe in girlfriends. How could he? He'd never been in one place long enough to find one. Sure, he dated. Maybe he flirted a little over the water cooler and found some casual situations. But they never lasted – and that's what was established from the beginning. That's why it was easy - convenient, even. No mess, no strings, no expectations.

But Mercedes…she was something else. She was the first person who was slowly convincing Sam to put down roots here. He was the first girl he ever invited over to his apartment, who he'd ever given his phone number to – not just his work extension. She was the first girl he'd ever taken on a proper, respectful date; the first one he'd spend his entire lunch break with, the first one he'd ever looked forward to seeing every morning – to walking home at night.

He knew it from the moment they'd first met. They'd never come into contact before; he'd only seen her pushing her mail trolley around on his floor briefly before disappearing into the elevator. But she made him do a double take each time – that rich, dark skin, that long hair, that laugh as she chatted with the girl over in the next cubicle.

She was someone _worth knowing._

It became even clearer that first time they spoke. He was on the phone with an associate, having somewhat of an argument. He was flustered (at least he _felt _flustered); his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his tie was askew, and his hands were currently in his hair that he was seriously considering tearing out.

So naturally, he was completely floored when he swiveled his chair around and she was standing right beside him. She was dressed in a dark blazer over a white shirt on top of black pants. He could feel his mouth fall open slightly, but he made no move to close it. Vaguely, he gestured to the phone, indicating that he was busy.

"Oh, don't worry, I'll wait," she assured him politely, holding up her hands. "I'm not even here."

That's what caused him to look again. He realized he _liked_ the way her eyes were smiling even when her lips weren't. He liked the way she stood, leaning more on one hip, one hand resting on the handle of the trolley. He was a fan of the way she looked away from him, giving him as much privacy as she could, but how he could tell she was still listening. But she _knew_ that _he_ knew she was listening.

Usually the mail carriers didn't care what you were doing. They'd shove a clipboard under your nose and demand it be signed. Then, once they'd clawed that signature from you, they'd toss a package or a stack of envelopes onto your desk and roll off to find their next victim.

Okay, maybe they weren't _that _vindictive. But the last thing they were was patient. It was true that they didn't care if you were on a phone call, in a meeting, or an inch from death. If you had hands and you were able, you were signing for that goddamn package or envelope.

When he got off the phone ten minutes later, she was still there. She wasn't rushing him along, she didn't look pissed off. She was just…there. Then, he did something he hadn't done with anyone in a long time: he had an honest-to-God conversation with her.

"Hi," he said slowly, running his fingers through his messy hair. "I guess that wasn't the best first impression, was it?"

"No, it was entertaining," she said with a smile, handing him over a clipboard.

"I think you mean embarrassing."

"Embarrassing for you, entertaining for me," she amended. "I haven't seen you around here…Sam," she added, glancing at the scrawl of a signature he'd just given her.

"But I've seen_ you_ around…" He strained his neck to see her shiny, silver name tag. "Mercedes."

"Should I be flattered or alarmed?" she asked, leaning against the wall of his cubicle.

He could feel himself starting to smile. Was she actually _flirting_ with him?

He leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head.

"You should be asking yourself how come you've never spoken with this new, mysterious, cute temp?"

She laughed that rich, colorful laugh of hers. "Maybe _because_ he's a temp."

He unclasped his hands and leaned forward. "Hey, it's not a disease you know," he pointed out.

She pressed her lips together in an attempt to hide her smile – a failed attempt. "No, but you could be out of here by the end of the week and it would've never made a difference whether I'd made your acquaintance or not."

"You do realize I'm filling in for a woman who's taken extended maternity leave," he said with a smirk. "That's six whole months. And you were never going to talk to me?"

"Well, by the end of the fifth month, I would've figured it out," she razzed back.

"I'll have you know that once, I temped a receptionist gig for a year," he bragged, sitting back again.

Her eyebrows went up. "Seriously?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," he swore.

She shook her head in disbelief. Her loose curls bounced and brushed against one another with the motion. "But it must be an unstable living. I mean, it's hard enough to get an _actual_ job nowadays, let alone any extra work."

He shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a tumbleweed blowing in the wind."

"Come on, you have to have another job besides temping now and then."

"A year straight," he reminded her, pointing at her with his pen. "And I could ask you the same thing."

Her teeth poked out as she bit her lip. "Well, actually…I'm a singer."

He moved his chair forward. "Really?" he purred.

"I kid you not," she told him with a grin. "This is _my_ other gig."

"And to think," he started with mock astonishment, "Here I had you pegged as this wonderful, nice, lovely mailroom attendant."

"Hey, now," she said. "I'm that too."

She laughed and he just had to join in; it was infectious. The way she placed a hand on her chest as if everything he said was the funniest thing, the tilt of her head slightly towards him, how her hand was still curved around the handle of the trolley – completely forgotten. _She_ was infectious.

And the rest was history.

* * *

><p>Sam had arranged everything for this day. He'd called the entertainment hotline and requested that they forward all his calls to the phone on his office desk during office hours because he couldn't be seen at work on his cell. He'd logged onto his computer and onto the company's database, making sure his instant messaging was working.<p>

You'd be surprised how much one adult entertainment business can sell. People paid big bucks for a few dirty IMs or text messages – even more than phone calls. Something about sitting behind a computer screen made people brave. Sam was very good at talking dirty, but he was even better at _writing_ dirty. It was a big market and also convenient because he didn't have to be on the phone all day.

The downside was that if he did get a phone call, it would be a serious customer. Serious customers meant serious cash, but there was always a catch. There had to be a major kink – an accent, a persona, a scenario, breath-play, dominance, submissiveness, role play, jealousy, roughness, something like that. Some people were into some pretty obscene things; things not worth repeating to anyone lest emotional trauma be the wish of the listener.

But he needed money so badly that for once he was going to risk it just this one day – just Valentine's Day – because the world was full of lonely people on this day. His sexy expertise were _needed,_ and who was he to say no to some cold hard cash? He liked to think of himself as a modern-day superhero - providing orgasms for the needy.

He was just finishing up the third call of the morning when his boss strode by. He was right in the middle or describing his fake orgasm (in detail) when this happened, so naturally he dropped the phone.

His boss paused at the door of his office, noticing his flushed face. "Who was that on the phone, Evans?"

Sam spluttered and reeled the phone back in by its cord. "No one," he insisted. He practically slammed the phone down on the hook. "My…mother."

"Your mother?" he repeated, looking stunned. "That's downright cold."

Sam shrugged. "Work comes first, right?"

His boss was peering at him over his glasses, surveying him. "Right. You make sure to answer my calls first."

"Of course," he promised. "I wouldn't dream of it otherwise."

Then the door was closed and Sam slumped back in his chair, still reeling from such a close call.

He cringed when the phone rang again.

* * *

><p><em>AN: FF is being a little weird over here, my dear readers. If you're reading this, it means it got its shit together and we can all move on with our lives, hold hands, and skip through fields of daisies._

_How much fun is it to write Sam and Mercedes, you ask? OODLES of fun :D_

**_Make my day and review!_**


	6. Chapter 6

Dave was up at the break of dawn. He went on his daily ten mile run along the beach.

The thing about being a star athlete is there's _never_ a moment's peace – not even at four or five in the morning as you're dripping with sweat and running away from the sun. All of his female neighbors were looking to sink their manicured claws into him and they new exactly when he'd be running by their beachside manors - right down the the second.

Most of them woke up and dressed themselves up just to call out to him, wave to him, bat their false eyelashes at him with their cleavage threatening to slip out of the mini dresses they'd packed themselves into (Seriously, who wears a dress at five in the morning? That's pushing it). Other, more ambitious women (i.e. read: _stalkers_) would actually dress themselves in their running gear and go out to_ meet_ him.

They'd run along beside him, struggling to keep up with his stride, but babbling on and on all the same. It was always the same, generic crap they spouted out: "Oh, Dave, we're having a party this weekend. You should come over." "Dave, did you need somebody to come over and water your plants? Because I'd be more than happy to come over…" "When are you going to ask me out?"

It drove him mad, but he always stayed cordial, polite. He'd smile away their offers and pick up the pace. Sooner or later they'd drop out of the run – they always did. Then he'd have two luxurious minutes to himself.

Then the next one would enter and the cycle continued.

Having a huge house and living alone was somewhat of a conundrum. It was lonely, to say the least. He always needed the stereo on, the dialogue of the television, the gentle humming of a wave machine. The constant noise, whether dominant or like faint static in the background, was a reassurance. He didn't know why, but it was.

On this day of days, he was taking an extra long shower. That seemed to be the only time he _actually_ got to call his own. There were no emails underneath the spray of the showerhead, there were no phone calls, no text messages, no facebook updates, no press calls, no reporters knocking on his door, no paparazzi trying to snag a candid of him. There was just him and the steam emanating from the constant stream of water.

So you can see why he tried to take his time in there.

The television was on in the bedroom, the news being the only thing of interest on besides tacky soap operas and talk shows featuring hosts talking about your inner feelings. As he stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel, he listened to the strains of the sports reports.

There was a story about yet _another_ basketball player who'd cheated on his wife, a piece about a soccer player who did a risqué cover on a men's magazine, then amidst it all, he heard his name.

"And the next story of the hour revolves around David Karofsky, the star quarterback of the Chargers twelve years running. It's no secret that he's one of the oldest NFL players currently in the league approaching the thirty-three year mark - "

Dave grunted in distaste as he got dressed in front of the flatscreen television.

"Add that on top of his devastating error that led to the loss of the championship Super Bowl game – the fumble heard around the world, as the press have been calling it - and his once-faithful team might be considering letting him go." The reporter turned to the female anchor next to him. "Now, ten years ago, coaches might've been after him despite his downright_ embarrassing_ mistake, but now…"

"No one wants me," Dave finished for the reporter, crossing his arms across his bare chest.

"The question everyone wants to know is this: Will David Karofsky find a new team? Will he remain with the Chargers? Or will he do us all a favor and just retire?" The sports anchor ended his dramatic question by looking straight into the camera.

"Ouch," Dave said. "Lay off," he told the television before shutting it off and throwing the remote across the room.

He made his way out on to the terrace snatching his phone from the bedspread as he went. He had a call to make.

* * *

><p><em>Twenty more sit ups,<em> Quinn told herself. Just twenty more. Then maybe twenty more after that. She just had to keep going, crunch that stomach and burn the fat already settling in from the Valentine's Day chocolate.

On the nineteenth, she collapsed. She was on the floor of her bedroom an hour and a half before she had to leave for work, wearing her skimpy work out clothes, her sweat-soaked hair bunched in a ponytail. Her breathing was harsh and her arms were flung out on the floor beside her. She couldn't go on.

After five minutes of panting and self-pity, she dragged herself up and forced herself onto the elliptical machine. She jammed the key into it and turned it up as high as she dared. She didn't have time for a proper work out today, but she needed to do _something_ before work to occupy her mind.

In a few seconds she was gasping for air, but she wouldn't stop. She turned up the intensity, climbing those metaphorical stairs as if her whole goddamn life depended on it.

It was this _day_. Christmas and New Year's she could take. But then the universe hit her with Valentine's Day just when she was coming off from the New Year high, her resolutions already wasted in the past. Who stuck a holiday in February anyways?

She was alone – she was _always_ alone. So five years ago, she'd gotten together with one of her best friends, Kurt (who was also single at the time, she remembered with vehemence) and they'd created the now-sacred tradition of the I Hate Valentine's Day party. And that first year, it'd been a hit. All her friends showed up in great spirit to despise an over-commercialized holiday.

Because, honestly, who was this day helping? The insecure people who needed their love to be proven to them? To be shown off? It was just a sick excuse to buy tacky Hallmark cards, expensive gifts no one could afford, chocolates that people would regret eating, and to make lots of love. She bet more condoms were sold before Valentine's Day than any other holiday. It was like a huge excuse for sex.

Which would be absolutely _fine_ if she had anyone to have sex _with_. But she never did. She was too neurotic. She knew this and saw nothing wrong with it. So _what_ if she was a headstrong business woman? Nothing but hard work had gotten her to this point in her career – a career that paid her a ton of money and made her happy.

Sure, the hours were long and the people weren't always easy to please, but it didn't matter. What mattered is the respect she got her clients and her friends. They were all proud of her; _she_ was proud of her. And why shouldn't she be? In high school, she'd thought the most she could achieve was a real estate job where her face would be plastered on notepads and Frisbees. This was so much more – _she_ was so much more.

Yes, she was stressed out beyond belief and she was doing more things than humanly possible. She couldn't even _think_ about finding a boyfriend with all the work she had to do - hell, she couldn't even think about scheduling a bathroom break in her blackberry. Ninety-nine percent of the time, she was a hopeless basket case because she let every single tiny thing get to her.

Twenty-five years old and she was still hung on the concept of 'perfect'. When it wasn't achieved, she went into a state of crisis – which was every other day. She was a hot mess, something Kurt never refrained from reminding her of. She even thought he had her programmed into his phone as "Hot Mess". Just like that - capitalized and everything. Like it was a mental state and she was its only occupant.

She was just reaching the climax of her workout when the phone rang.

Stunned, she jerked the key out of the elliptical and sent herself falling onto the floor in a heap. She let out a yelp, her legs still tangled in the still-moving pedals. Her limbs were all floppy from the exertion and she wobbled as she got up, scrambling to get to the phone on the other side of the queen-sized bed. She tripped over her own feet two more times until, on the third time, her hand had latched onto the receiver.

As she crashed to the floor, she pressed the green button.

"Hello," she panted.

"Quinn? Are you okay?" Dave asked her.

She rolled over, already fretting that she was getting sweat on the carpet. She'd have to mop that up with a wet rag. "I'm fine, I was just working out and I fell."

"Are you sure you're alright?" he pressed.

She wheezed and waved it off even though he couldn't see before dragging herself onto her knees. "I'm perfect. Never been better."

"Well, okay…" He sounded doubtful. What else was new? "Look, I hope you're going to be in at the office soon because I just saw a report on the news and I was hoping my _highly paid_ publicist would feel like smoothing it over right about now…"

"I saw it," she cut him off. Well, that was a half-lie. She had _listened_ to it. "I'm already working on a press release to be sent out. I've got it all covered."

"That's what I like to hear."

"Yeah, if there's anything else you need just let me know," she told him, hoisting herself onto the bed.

"Actually, there is something…"

Quinn pursed her lips. Great, _another_ task to squeeze in before the party along with decorating, picking up the extra food and party favors, dusting and disinfecting the entire house. "Name it."

"I'd like you to arrange a press conference for later this afternoon. And before that I'm going to have a meeting with my agent and I'd like you to come along. So we can decide our next move," he clarified. "Can I count on you to be there?"

"Yes," she promised, standing up. "I'll be there. You can count on me."

"Great," he said, sounding relieved. "I'll let you know the details later. Thanks, Quinn."

"Alright, talk to you later," she said offhandedly before hanging up.

She'd opened up her laptop and was logging on to her Facebook. She'd sent out an invite to all of her friends – two hundred and counting – even if she didn't think they'd be interested. The more the merrier, right? And since it seemed paper invites that were mailed out to guests were out of style, she'd sent the invite on Facebook where she figured more people were connected. Look at her - technologically apt.

Kurt had made her swear not to go anywhere near the RSVP list until the last minute because he knew it'd just cause her to freak out, no matter what the number was. If everyone had RSVP'd, then she'd go into a meltdown. Actually, no matter how many people RSVP'd, she'd go into a meltdown. It was pretty much guaranteed either way.

He'd helped her set up the party for a good-sized group, figuring about a third of the invited guests would actually show up. It had seemed like a good plan at first, but now going back, she didn't see why she wasn't allowed to freak out just a little bit.

She clicked on the invite and almost had a heart attack right then and there. Seriously, her pulse stopped and the phone she'd held in her hand clattered to the floor from her already sweat-covered palms.

Zero acceptances.

_No one would be at the party._

* * *

><p>Sugar was stuck in the library at Jefferson High School. Not because she was a student there, but because she was a tutor. Mr. and Mrs. Hummel paid her well to nanny for Parker, but she needed a little extra dough here and there. Her friend Brittany had an in at the high school and it was all settled – she'd come in from nine in the morning until one thirty, tutoring all the kids who came in during their study hall periods.<p>

She was between students when her phone vibrated about ten times, sending it buzzing across the table and onto the floor. She scrambled after it, but it was too late – people were already looking at her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear nervously as she bent down to pick up the device, cursing herself for not silencing it completely.

There were a dozen odd texts from Kurt all coming in at once:

_[11:00am]_

_Sugar, are you out of work yet?_

_[11:02am]_

_No, wait, you don't get out until almost two._

_[11:03am]_

_But you have a lunch break soon, don't you?_

_[11:04am]_

_Sugar, why aren't you answering? THIS IS IMPORTANT._

_[11:05am]_

_Do I have your attention yet?_

_[11:06am]_

_QUINN IS IN MELTDOWN MODE_

_[11:06am]_

_THIS IS NOT A DRILL_

_[11:07am]_

_Sugar, get your cute ass out of the library and over to Quinn's office_

_[11:08am]_

_Come on, it's like a ten-minute drive into town. I'd go myself if I were free._

_[11:09am]_

_Did I mention that I'd be *extremely* grateful? And I'd be in your debt?_

_[11:10am]_

_Wait, you ARE going to her party tonight, aren't you?_

_[11:10am]_

_Because I said I'd go, but I don't know if I'm going to have a change of plans or not…_

_[11:11am]_

_You know what, that's not the point. WHERE ARE YOU?_

_[11:12am]_

_CALL ME!_

She looked around and hid her phone underneath the table to text back a hasty reply:

_[11:15am]_

_**Can't. I'm still on the clock and I have a lunch date. Sorry to disappoint, babe.**_

His reply was almost instantaneous:

_[11:16am]_

_Don't you dare 'babe' me, Sugar. This is serious._

_[11:17am]_

_What's so important about this lunch date that it can't be postponed like half an hour?_

_[11:19am]_

_**Artie and I are having sex for the first time.**_

_[11:20am]_

_**Sorry. Asperger's.**_

_[11:21am]_

…

_[11:21am]_

_I'll talk to you later._

_[11:23am]_

_**Kurt!**_

_[11:24am]_

_**I know you're still there – you're still on your lunch break!**_

_[11:25am]_

_**I'm taking your silence as implicit acquiescence!**_

She flipped her phone shut and sighed. Would no one understand how important this was? How monumental this_ day_ was? It was like the universe was telling her something: the stars were aligned, the heavens were correct, the time to act was now! The cosmos were all directed to this day and they were telling her to _love_; love like she'd never loved anyone before.

It was the perfect set up. Who wouldn't want to have their first time with their new boyfriend to be on Valentine's Day? They'd been discussing the idea for what seemed like months and now the time was_ finally_ right: Valentine's Day. It was a day for love – it was a day _to_ love. How could it _not _be perfect?

Just then she received an incoming call. The screen read: _Brittany._ She looked side to side before getting up from the table and ducking into one of the study rooms, careful to close the door behind her.

"Hello?" she said as she walked over to the large window overlooking the quad.

"Hey!" Brittany greeted her brightly. "So listen, are we on for lunch? It's almost twelve and the kids are going to have their lunch break and I know you're in between students so…"

"Yeah, I am," Sugar confirmed, "But I told you earlier that I wouldn't be able to do lunch today, remember?"

"You did?"

Sugar smiled to herself. "I sent you a text, Britt. Didn't you get it?"

Brittany took a minute to think over the question. "I don't think I did."

"But you responded."

"Yeah but I thought you were saying you couldn't do Chinese for lunch – not that the whole thing was off. I figured we'd go Mexican."

Sugar laughed. "That's sweet, but I can't eat anything today for lunch."

Brittany gasped on the other line. "Oh my god, are you sick?" she whispered. "Are you _dying?_"

"No, no, no," Sugar hastened to answer, "Nothing like that. It's just that…today Artie and I are going to have sex for the first time…together. So I figured it wouldn't be good to eat anything before. Oh, but don't worry, I had a big breakfast," she added.

Brittany practically squealed into the receiver, causing Sugar to flinch away from the phone. "You guys are going to lose your virginity to one another? That is so sweet. Santana was my first, you know. Well, my first girl."

"Not exactly," Sugar said with a laugh. "I mean that ship sailed long ago when I was a teenager, got too much alcohol and drugs in my system, and was feeling particularly slutty. But I never really counted that time because the guy was really gropey and slobbery. He didn't even know what to do with my boobs. I mean, hello, they're not chew toys."

Brittany was stunned into silence.

"Asperger's," Sugar said.

"Gesundheit."

"I have to get going if I want to get to the apartment before Artie," she fretted, looking at her watch. "I'm going to be late. I'll talk to you later."

"Oh, wait! I'll buy you a sandwich and save it for you. That way you'll have something to eat afterwards," Brittany chirped. "Then you can tell me all about it. I expect full-on details."

"Awww, thank you," Sugar gushed. "That's so thoughtful of you, Britt. Why don't you go out with Santana to lunch? I'm sure she'd love some Chinese food."

"Yeah," Brittany said as if the idea were just dawning on her. "I'll do that. Talk to you later! Have good sex!"

And with a click, the line went dead.


	7. Chapter 7

Santana sat back in her office, whipped out her cell phone, hit speed-dial, and waited.

She listened to the ringing emitted on speakerphone and waited until she heard the other person pick up. She didn't wait for any greetings before just launching into it.

"Hey, are you up for lunch today, Charles Xavier?"

Artie sighed on the other line. "Haven't we been through this already? I can't today. You know I can't."

"_Right,_" Santana said, as if she'd just remembered. "You're going to be getting it on with little Miss Sugar." She laughed. "How could I forget? I went with you to pick out the condoms – ribbed for her pleasure, baby."

"Look, I can't talk right now," Artie said, sounding panicked. "I have to get ready for when Sugar gets here and I keep having to psych myself out…"

Santana sat up in her chair, leaning over her desk. "Listen, Wheels, it's going to be alright. You love her, she loves you – it'll be great. Just don't make her do all the work, okay?"

"A little insensitive, aren't we?" Artie sniped.

"_Confidence_ is sexy, young padawan," she told him. "Own it. Own her."

"I'm trying - "

"Look, Brittany told me all about that one time she was really drunk and you guys had sex. I know what you're dealing with, FDR. You can't hide anything from Aunty 'Tana."

"Will you please stop calling yourself that?" he moaned. "Don't act like you weren't nervous for your first time with Brittany."

Santana scoffed. "What was there to be nervous about? That I was going to get her pregnant?" she joked.

He harrumphed into the receiver. "Being nervous is natural. You're _supposed_ to feel that way, remember?"

"You're not a virgin teenager anymore, Artie. Don't be nervous. Be confident, be dominant. Women eat that shit up."

"Do they?"

"Look, if you wanna be extra sexy, do some push-ups before she gets there – assuming your arms still work," she teased.

He laughed. "Never been better. Does that really work? Is it for the nerves?"

"_Hell_ no," she said with an easy laugh. "It's so you can _look_ awesome."

"Do you do pushups before you and Brittany do the deed?" he asked.

"Nope," she answered. "I do jumping jacks. _Naked._"

"Don't you have any actual _work_ to do?" he asked. "Why don't you take Brittany out to lunch and leave me to my business?"

"Well, with an attitude like that Mr. Snarky McHotwheels, maybe I will," she said. "And, just FYI, as the cheerleading coach, I'm left to my own devices until the designated sports period – seventh period. So I'm free for moral support _all day long._"

"I'll keep it in mind," he replied sarcastically.

"So if you reach that coveted moment you need a little motivation, you know who to call."

"I'm hanging up," he warned her.

She laughed. "Give Sugar an orgasm for me!"

Just then, Brittany burst into her office, looking extra delicious in an a-line dress with a jean jacket over it. Her blonde hair hung in curls framing her face and the finishing touch were these over-the-top heart-shaped earrings dangling from each lobe. Dragging behind her was the enormous stuffed bear, head bouncing with each step.

She set it down and leaned over the desk where Santana was sitting, letting her cleavage show a bit – as if she needed any _more_ motivation. "Take me out to lunch?" she asked sweetly.

Santana broke out into a grin and leaned forward. "I'd love to."

"Oh, wait, before we go I brought you your present," Brittany told her, dancing a little on the spot from excitement. She held up a little pink back decked out with flowery tissue paper sticking out of the top in tufts.

Santana accepted the bag, but looked confused. "You didn't have to get me anything, Brittany. We agreed on no gifts this year."

"You already broke that rule with Sir Fluffs-a-lot," the other girl protested with an adorable pout. "Just open it."

Santana feigned a sigh and reached into the tissue paper. She pulled out a white cheerleading uniform trimmed in red. It said "Lopez" across the back with the number 23 – Brittany's favorite number.

"_Wanky,_" she murmured, putting it up against her chest. She stood up and twirled around for Brittany. "So do you have a cheerleading fetish I don't know about?" she teased.

"Puh-lease," Brittany said with a grin. "You _definitely_ know about it." She gave Santana a wink.

"I guess I'll just have to wear this sometime then," she purred, leaning closer to Brittany.

The blonde girl swayed a little bit side to side, holding her skirt in her hand as she did so. "Maybe tonight?" she asked, her voice dripping with suggestion.

Santana pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "Maybe," she agreed before leaning in for round two - one that would surely last for quite some time.

* * *

><p>Quinn was all business now.<p>

She'd pulled herself out of her Valentine's Day-related depression, put on her make up, tied up her hair, and put on her best business outfit – the light grey one with the tailored jacket and the matching pencil skirt. She was ready to go.

Dave was at her side as she gingerly sipped an iced tea and cut the chicken topping her salad into more and more miniscule pieces. His agent, a middle-aged woman whose blonde hair was streaked with white sat across from him, not touching anything that was set in front of her.

"So?" the woman asked Dave, leaning forward. "What was the decision?"

Dave looked around the upscale restaurant, making sure no one was listening. Most of the big names in the business came here to get a first class dining experience with an extra serving of privacy. They were in the outdoor gala, but the tables were spaced far apart and there were walls between each area made of leaves and ivy. No one would overhear them.

He took a deep breath before confessing, "They're letting me go."

Quinn and his agent took in a collective breath of air. They exchanged glances of dismay, but on the outside they held their cool façade, never even lifting a finger or giving away their inner panic.

After neatly folding her napkin and placing it on the table, Quinn was the first to speak. She was jiggling her stiletto-heeled foot under the table, but no one could see it.

"So we pursue another team," she suggested.

His agent chimed in, "I'm sure we could generate enough interest in you to have someone take a second look…"

"Maybe I'm done," he said calmly. Quinn could tell he'd been thinking this over for a while – perhaps since the big game and every day after that – and was only just voicing it now. "Maybe I should hang up the towel and call it quits."

"No," she rushed to say, placing a light hand over his. "Don't give up, David. This is your _dream. _It's worth fighting for."

"It _was_ my dream," he corrected her. "I've had a long, fulfilling career," he told her, "I was lucky to get a break in this business - trust me, I know that - but maybe my time's run out."

"Look," his agent cut in, "You can still make this happen. Strictly speaking as a fan and not someone who makes a lot of money off of you, I know that you can go further. Don't give up now, David."

"A career isn't the only thing I want," he said to the two women. "I'm set for life now, but I'm _alone._ There's no one to share it with, you know? I want a relationship. I want a _family._" He was pleading with them now, looking for someone to second his decision and make him feel like it was the right one.

He wasn't asking for permission, he was looking for acceptance.

"You can have those things and _still_ play football," his agent tried to tell him.

He shook his head. "You don't get it, if I show everyone the person that I really am, then no team will want me for sure."

Quinn piped up. "If you could just_ tell_ us what we were dealing with here - "

"I can't," he snapped. "Not yet anyways," he said in a softer voice. "But I'll let you know at the press conference later either way. I still have a lot to think about."

Quinn retracted her hand and sat back in her chair. "Okay, I have it all arranged at the office, all you have to do is show up. And I've already released a statement that it was a mutual parting between you and the Chargers."

"Great," he told her, sounding relieved. "That's great." He was silent for a few minutes, scraping his fork along the edges of his plate and rearranging his food into smaller piles. "Look, I have to go, but I'll call you before I leave for the press conference," he promised.

Then he got up without a word and left.

His agent looked over at Quinn, peering over the lenses of her glasses, looking older than she ever had before. "What the_ hell_ did he just tell us?"

* * *

><p>Finn had grown quite friendly with his next-seat neighbor. These things tended to happen on fourteen hour flights. Coincidentally, the man – whose name, Finn learned, was Justin – had brought a pack of cards in his pocket and they were now playing their tenth consecutive round of Golf.<p>

Finn was crushing him, 10-0.

"It's _uncanny,_" Justin repeated. He shook his head as he flipped over his last remaining card to reveal a jack, which tacked on ten more points to his tally. Hint: the more points you had, the worse off you were. "How do you keep winning?"

Finn laughed as he gathered up the cards to reshuffle them. "Some people would argue that card games are the luck of the draw, but really they're all games of skill. It's all about reading your partner."

"Is that what you're doing?" Justin asked with a smile. "Are you _reading_ me?"

"Ah, it comes with the uniform," he explained.

"Am I that obvious? And here I thought I was so subtle."

"It's not too hard to decipher - with a trained eye," Finn went on to say. "You may have perfected your so-called 'Poker Face', but I can still see your emotions. I can tell when you've picked a bad card and when you've found a pair." He split the deck in half and shuffled it again. "You also like to shit-talk."

Justin laughed. "So what else can you tell about me?"

"That you've just ended a serious relationship and because of that have acquired a distaste for certain romantically-centered holidays such as this one."

He stared at Finn disbelievingly. "There is no way you could possibly know that."

"Well, I suspected when you kind of totally flinched when the hostess wished you a Happy Valentine's Day and you declined her heart-shaped pancakes. And you've just confirmed it, so I do," Finn said. "So tell me about him."

"Him?" Justin repeated. "Now that's just being stereotypical," he said.

"No, that's knowing what to look for."

"That's impossible," the other man interjected. He lowered his voice, "My parents don't even know that."

Finn smiled and clasped Justin on the shoulder. "But _I_ know that. And it's fine – it's all fine. So just tell me about him."

"Nothing to tell," Justin said, sitting back in his seat. "It's over – that much you've already surmised. He was, uh…He is sort of this popular, well-known guy. He wasn't honest about who he was. I was willing to come out to my parents because I thought he was "the one". But he was ashamed of me and told me it was over. He chose his career over me."

Finn nodded, contemplating Justin's story. He offered words of comfort, "He'll get over himself eventually. He'll realize he made a mistake."

Justin smiled weakly. "You don't know that, you don't even know me. For all you know, I could be this tremendous jerk who's been nothing but an asshole to his ex-boyfriend and deserved to get dumped. I could be the worst person in the history of the world and you would never know because we've only just met."

"But you're not," Finn replied with a shrug.

The other man nodded to himself. "But I'm not."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yes, Justin is an original character, but I sort of kind of love him, so yeah (:_

_I'm really, really having fun with this story, you guys and I just hope it shows! Isn't it awesome how much each character just fits into this? I think it's - you guessed it - uncanny._

**_Review and leave me love :3_**


	8. Chapter 8

_12:45pm_

There really was no other place to be on Valentine's Day quite like a first grade classroom. The only real word that could viably describe the scene would be "adorable." All of the children came into the classroom that morning with their arms full of envelopes, or holding bags that contained their Valentines.

The nice thing about being a first grade teacher was that Kurt could give them fun holiday-related activities all day long. They could read picture books about love, they could color in coded pictures of hearts and candy, they could even do math using those cute little sweetheart candies. The list went on and on, and Kurt endorsed all of it.

How could he not? The kids ate it up and so did he.

The children had just come back from their post-lunch recess, the longest recess of the day, and it was finally time to hand out Valentines. Kurt had sent a letter home with all of his students informing the parents that he was encouraging them to explore their intercreativity and (for the love of all that's holy) would they _please_ make homemade cards.

One thing he did not like about Valentine's Day were those cheap-o, tacky fold-and-tear cards with cheesy promo photos from the latest hit franchise stuck on them with terrible puns ascertaining to the plot of the movie/show/cartoon. He had nothing against expressing oneself with the use of popular media, but he knew that these thirty, crazy five year olds could make better cards than that.

It just seemed so _impersonal_ if you went the store-bought way. All you had to do was write your own name over about thirty times and then fill in the names of your classmates. It didn't require any effort or any real care. Then you sealed them with heart stickers and the deed was done.

Well not if Kurt Hummel had anything to say about it.

So there the children were with their envelopes containing what he was sure were doodled-upon, glitterfied, glue-covered Valentines and they were waiting. All morning long, they'd been making their "mailboxes". Kurt had told them to bring in a shoe box that day, and they'd obliged.

Of course, the shoe boxes had been transformed into lovely mailboxes after being painted over or wrapped in colorful construction paper, drawn on, sprinkled with glitter, stamped, decorated with stickers. Really, it was a free for all. The only requirement was that their name had to be clearly displayed on the top. Then, one by one, Kurt had taken the scissors (being the designated responsible adult in the room) and cut a long slit on top of everyone's box so that they could drop off their envelopes within.

Everyone had set their box on the front of their desk and waited (impatiently) now.

"Before we get started," Kurt said from where he stood behind his desk, "Does anyone have any questions?"

One little boy in the middle row raised his hand quickly.

"Yes, Bradley?"

"Why do they call it Valentine's Day?" Only he said it like "Valentime's Day".

All the children glued their eyes onto Kurt, Mr. Hummel, to answer the question. They tittered anxiously.

"Well, I'm glad you brought that up, Bradley, because I have some Valentine's Day trivia for you. There was this guy – this _emperor_ – named Claudius II. AKA Claudius the _Cruel._" He leaned over his desk and lowered his voice for effect. Half the room gasped. "He wasn't a very nice man, but he was in charge and he thought that it would be better if soldiers were unattached – if they didn't have wives, families, or girlfriends." The kids wrinkled their nose at the word, still believing that the opposite sex had cooties. "But there was this cool guy and his name just so happened to be Valentine."

The kids exchanged looks like, "Hey, I know that guy."

"He was a priest and he thought Claudius' ruling against love wasn't fair. So he agreed to marry people in secret anyways – right under Claudius' nose…"

"That's what he gets," Bradley interjected, banging his little fist on the table.

"Now, now, settle down," Kurt shushed them. "Some stories say that Valentine was discovered and he was thrown into jail."

"Oh no," wailed Celia, a little blonde-haired girl.

"Oh _yes,_" Kurt answered. He walked around to the front of his desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "And it's said that he fell in _love_." All the kids groaned, others gagged or hid their faces which made Kurt smile. "Some people say he fell in love with his jailer's daughter – quite the scandal back in the day. He sent her a letter from his prison cell signed - " Kurt pulled out a heart for all the kids to see. "_From Your Valentine_." The kids were hanging onto his every word, leaning on their desks to get a closer look at the construction-paper heart. "A phrase we still use today."

There was a moment of silence before Kurt said, "Okay, enough with the history lesson, everyone pass out your Valentines!"

It was an eruption of madness, everyone got up at once, the chairs scraping against he linoleum floors as the kids made their way around the classroom in no particular order – just mass chaos. It was fun to watch.

"Mr. Hummel?" a young boy named Parker asked, tugging on his sleeve.

He knelt down to his eye-level. "Yes, Parker? Do you need help reading some of the names on the boxes? I know some of the kids write a little sloppy…"

"No, I just wanted to give you this." He handed him a big envelope with the words "Mr. Hummel" scribbled in his child-like scrawl with two stickers in each corner.

"Aww, thank you," Kurt told him, putting the envelope to his chest. "That was very nice of you to think of me."

"Mr. Hummel? Have _you_ ever been in love?"

The classroom broke out in jeers and choruses of "_eeeewww's_" from every kid that had overheard and even the ones who hadn't. Kids were just like that. Kurt told them to settle down or else he'd make everyone sit down right now and eventually they quieted and returned to their card-handing-out.

"Um, I don't know yet," he told Parker with a smile. And with that the little boy walked away.

But he could explain why, just for a second - before he saw Jesse in his mind - he had seen Blaine's face.

* * *

><p>"There is absolutely <em>no<em> slacking off today, Mike," Blaine informed his best friend as he walked past, his arms bursting with roses.

Mike looked up from where he was slumped over the counter – the counter of which had had a constant line flowing all morning long and now well into the afternoon without so much as one break.

"I'm not slacking off. I was taking a power nap – it's necessary for me to have my strength in times such as these. And if someone orders _one more tulip_…"

"I won't hesitate to put you on bathroom duty," Blaine threatened, smiling as he did so.

Mike stood up straight. "I'm your faithful slave, Anderson. Point me to the tulips."

"Much better."

Blaine walked over the display cases which had to be constantly refilled with new arrangements and gingerly opened the glass. He went into the back room and got a cartful of bouquets, rolled them out to the front, and began putting them on the shelves. He had an eye for which colors looked good next to one another and which type of flower to put in the top shelves, which kind on the bottom. He was in the middle of this process when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Blaine?" the man asked. "Blaine Anderson?"

Blaine stood from where he'd been kneeling on the ground and wiped his gloved hands on his pants. "Do we know each other?" he replied tentatively.

"No," the man said, breaking into a smile. He was tall, he had dark, wavy hair and he was, in a word, dashing. "I recognized you from the report on TV."

"Oh, wow," Blaine said with enthusiasm. "They _aired_ it?"

"They air it like every three hours," the man told him. "It's why I'm here."

Blaine jabbed a fist into the air. "Did you hear that, guys?" he called back to his co-workers. "We're famous!"

Mike and Tina whooped and hollered along with a few other employees and customers in line clapped. Blaine turned back to the handsome stranger with a wide grin on his face.

"That's fantastic. Well, we're glad you're here."

"Yeah, it's great," the man replied offhandedly. "Look, I hate to play this card, but I'm a surgeon. I have an operation to perform in a couple of hours and I was wondering if there was some way I could maybe skip the line."

Blaine looked around him to see the line was still, in fact, winding out of the door and wrapping around the shop.

"Sure, of course," he answered, guiding the stranger by the arm to the front of the counter. "How can we help you today?"

"I need two arrangements today – both of them exactly alike in every way," the man said, pulling a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. "One for each of my…interests."

He became serious and stared at Blaine intently, trying to send him some kind of telepathic message not to question him.

"Do I have your discretion in this matter?" he asked Blaine, holding out his credit card to him. Like he was paying him off or something – his business in exchange for Blaine's diplomacy.

Blaine laughed a little uneasily. This wasn't the first time he'd seen this situation (and he'd seen worse – _more_ than two "interests") and it certainly wouldn't be the last. "I wouldn't worry, sir. There is a code, a florist code. We don't ask questions."

"Great," the man said, looking extremely relieved. "Here's my card."

Blaine took the card and the scrap of paper. He read the names off of the list and his heart sank when he recognized the second one. He re-read it several times, trying to convince himself that it couldn't be the same person – it had to be someone else. He was gripping the edge of the counter so noticeably tight that his knuckles were turning white.

"Is there a problem?" Jesse St. James – according to his card – asked, leaning closer.

Blaine rotated his jaw and rolled his shoulders, taking a deep breath. "No," he forced himself to say. "This Olivia St. James – same last name as you – she would be your _wife?_" He narrowed his eyes.

"Yes," Jesse answered stiffly.

"And this…" He couldn't even bring himself to say it. "_Kurt Hummel._ That would be your boyfriend?"

Jesse shifted his weight, glaring at Blaine. "Yes. I thought there was a _florist code_ or whatever – you didn't ask questions."

"Hey, there _is_ a code," Blaine said, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm abiding by it. I was just making sure I knew what to…write on the cards." He could feel that he was looking at Jesse with disgust, but he couldn't help it. Who was this guy to be playing with people's lives like this? "I just wanted to make sure that we were on the same page."

There was silence between them as Jesse crossed his arms and waited. "Will you please run the card now?"

Blaine nodded slowly and obeyed.

A few, tense minutes later, Blaine handed over a receipt for Jesse to sign. Mike was looking over at the two and he mouthed, "What's wrong?"

Blaine shook his head and waved him away; a sign that he'd tell him later. He waited for Jesse to finish signing his name on the topmost slip with a flourish. When the copies were separated from the carbon paper, Blaine put on a tight smile and said, "Thank you. We hope to see you again," as per customer policy.

Then Jesse St. James was strolling out of the shop as if nothing had happened.

Blaine turned his back to the counter and leaned against it, putting his head in his hands. Great, now he was stuck in one hell of a situation.

Just then, his phone buzzed. A text message from Kurt:

_[1:30pm]_

_Thanks for the pep talk this morning. I've booked myself a ticket to see Jesse tonight! I leave at five! I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't planted the idea in my mind - you're the best!_

Shit.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Dun dun DUUUUUUUUN_

_May I just say that Kurt as an elementary school teacher is fantastic? I know there's that whole teacher!klaine kink and in those stories either Blaine or Kurt turn out to be a college professor who's too sexy for their own good and all that - but I like this so much more. I think Kurt would be amazing with kids! I don't know, I just love writing it :D_

_Thanks for the love, support, and patience, my dears (:_

**_Review and leave thoughts! _**_I'm very nice, I assure you._


	9. Chapter 9

Artie was all set up in Sugar's apartment. He wheeled around the entire place, scattering rose petals as he went. There were candles set up on the table in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bedroom. The lights were dimmed and the sheets were turned down.

He hoisted himself up on the bed to wait. He was earlier than anticipated, so he had time to kill.

Once he had himself situated and propped up against the pillows, he pulled his shirt off and threw it off to the side. Sugar had a long, oak bureau set up opposite the foot of her bed (there were drawers on the bottom left that belonged to him). Atop the bureau protruded this huge mirror that spanned the entire expanse of the wall, emerging from the depths of the wood and almost reaching the ceiling.

Artie could see himself in said mirror, which only made him more nervous than he already was. He began fixing his hair, running his fingers through it and trying to smooth it down with his palms, but it wasn't working too well. He turned his head from side to side examining how his hair stuck out in tufts in the back that simply would not go down – and, oh god, was that a pimple near his ear? _That's_ not sexy at all.

He sat up a little straighter, trying to make himself look strong and handsome. Was it just the lighting in here or was he a little pale? He took off his glasses, setting them on the bedside table, but that just made everything blurry. But still, Sugar always said he had the most beautiful eyes and what if while they were in the middle of…the _act_ (God, he couldn't even bring himself to think the word. Was this such a good idea?) and his glasses fell on her face? That'd be an immediate turn-off.

Maybe he looked a little peaky because he was just sitting there without his shirt and glasses. Maybe he should just go ahead and take off his pants too. Sure, half of the fun was undressing one another – but it might be awkward. He might get tangled up in the hooks of her bra and she might have trouble dragging his pants off his waist – something he couldn't really help her with. It'd be best if he just did it himself right now and got it over with. Then she could see that he was ready to get down to business, right? Like, "Let's skip all the teasing and get straight to the love part."

So he leaned back against the headboard and used one hand to hold himself up and the other to pull down his jeans. Then he alternated sides until the mass of the material was below his hips so he could easily pull the jeans the rest of the way off. Of course, he had to bend over and untie his shoes since he'd forgotten to take them off first in his haste to get all sexified and whatnot.

After that milestone had been passed, he slumped against the pillows and breathed deeply, trying to calm his nerves. Hint: it wasn't working.

He opened his eyes, squinting through the blurry vision and saw his feet sitting lifeless in front of him – covered in socks. It had to be the least sexy thing he'd ever seen – and he'd seen a lot. Who'd ever heard of a guy sitting in nothing but his underwear and his socks? Well, maybe it was done, but it wasn't _attractive._ He leaned over and pulled off his socks, carelessly tossing them towards where his shoes were sitting on the floor.

There, that was already better. Then he started analyzing the angle at which Sugar would come into the room, how he'd look to her when she walked in. The door, in relation to where he was sitting on the bed, was at the bottom right hand corner of the room. He was closest to the bathroom and the opposite wall – away from the hallway. Maybe he should pose himself? Was there such a thing as a sexy pose other than the ones male models got into in all those underwear photoshoots?

He tried to pretend he _was_ one of those models – tall, sexy, confident. He tried to imagine that any way he positioned himself would drive the ladies crazy with their undeniable lust - Sugar in particular. He tried to pout his lips and give _that look_ – you know the one. The one where the man is just looking into the camera, lips parted, eyes dark, muscles taut. There had to be some way to imitate it.

He shifted around on the bed until he was facing the door at an angle. He positioned his legs so that his left was bent, exposing the front of his groin. Of course, he still had his underwear on, so it was just an awkward bulge pointing towards the door. Just sitting there. 50/50 for tingling. He sighed and thought to himself, _"Well why not?"_

He repeated the process of taking off his boxers the same way he'd shed himself of his pants until there he was, in all his naked glory, sitting on Sugar's bed. He was glad he'd gotten there early so he could work out all these details and only be awkward with himself instead of in his girlfriend's presence. He noticed a red, heart-shaped pillow sitting in the center of the bed, like the centerpiece of pillows or something, and he grabbed it to place over his crotch.

There, that was sexy, wasn't it? He glanced at the mirror reflexively, but he couldn't see himself. He put his hand over the pillow as he were about to tear it away at a moment's notice. Sensual, self-assured, daring – _that's_ what was sexy, wasn't it? He alternated between raising and lowering his eyebrows, first the left then the right, trying to decide if he should look broody, pensive, or just plain hungry with lust.

But how could he know which one was his best look if he couldn't see himself? This was quite a lot of guesswork.

He stiffened when he heard the sound of a key in the lock.

Finally, he thought to himself. Sugar was here at last. He puffed out his chest and sat up a little straighter, pushing his hips forward against the heart pillow and trying his best to look attractively pensive in the general direction of the door.

There were footsteps in the kitchen, the sound of someone opening and closing the cabinets in the hallway. There was a clunk as she put down her purse – no doubt the one that he'd bought her that had silver pendants hanging from the corner; that's what made the noise. The footsteps were coming closer to the bedroom and he braced himself.

This was it.

"Sugar?" a voice called out. "Are you home? I'm here to pick up those pictures you were holding for me. Where did you say you put them?"

Arties reaction went from elated and nervous to a very different kind of heart-pounding; first, repulsion at the fact that he'd been envisioning Sugar walking throughout the apartment to find him and it turned out to be her _mother _and secondly, fear. Thirdly, embarrassment – or, rather, _pre-emptive_ embarrassment.

He let out a strangled cry and pushed himself off the bed. His aim was for his wheelchair, sitting nearby, but he ended up falling to the floor with a deafening crash as he took the nightstand and the half the bedding with him.

"Sugar?" her mother repeated, sounding alarmed. Oh god, she probably suspected a burglar. What if she sprayed him with pepper spray or hit him over the head with a bat? "Who's in there? I swear to _God_, I have a black belt."

Artie knew for a fact that Mrs. Motta did _not_ have a black belt. She couldn't even kill a fly properly with a fly swatter. He knew this from all the family get-togethers that he and Sugar had attended down at the Motta's vacation home; get-togethers that would come to an uncomfortable end if his possible future mother-in-law (hey, it could happen) came into the bedroom and found him stark naked and knotted in the silk bedspread showing everything that his Mama gave him.

"Uh, it's just me, Sheila," he called out.

"Artemus?" she asked. That was her cute little nickname for him, him being her daughter's boyfriend and oh-isn't-that-the-sweetest and all that. Although he always thought nicknames were to _shorten_ names and make them more convenient and she was tacking on another syllable… "What are you doing here? Did you fall? Do you need my help?"

Her voice was getting closer. "No, no!" he shouted, pushing himself into a sitting position and knocking his head against the bedframe in the process. "Ah, shit," he hissed. "I mean 'dang'!" he corrected himself.

"Honey, I'm coming around the bed to get you."

"You _really_ don't need to do that," he told her, his voice shrill with panic. "I'm fine, I'm just…sitting on the floor." He saw the heart pillow lying a few feet away and he stretched to grab it and cover himself. "I'll be fine, you just continue looking for your pictures…"

Too late.

She'd rounded the end of the bed and her eyes went wide with shock. She screamed and covered her mouth, then her eyes, they her mouth again, then her eyes…You can sense the pattern there.

She turned around and rammed into the edge of the bureau. "Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my _God._" Again and again.

There was no way she could miss exactly what she'd just walked into now, what with the rose petals and the candles – one of which she'd almost knocked over. Factor in a very naked Artie lying on the floor sans glasses and with a heart pillow over his penis and you had the world's most awkward situation.

She peeked through her fingers. "Is that your – Oh _god._" She fled from the room.

"It was nice to see you, Mrs. Motta," he called after her - _what_ compelled him to end on such an awful note, he didn't know. "I guess I'll see you at the party tonight."

The only answer he received was the slamming of the door.

* * *

><p>"And then I have you tied up to the bed," Sam went on to say. "There's no way out – I've used handcuffs and I've hidden the key."<p>

"Where is it?" came the breathy voice on the other line.

"It's hidden in my pants. And the only way you can get to it is...using your mouth."

Phone sex – it's like a choose-your-own-adventure game.

"So I crawl up the bed," he murmured into the receiver. "You use your teeth to pull down my underwear and you put your lips on my – please hold," he said abruptly before slamming the phone down onto the console.

He busied himself on the computer, pretending he was typing, but really just putting random numbers and letters on the screen that didn't actually mean anything.

"Who was that?" Mercedes asked him as she sidled up to his cubicle. She was gesturing to the phone that was hung up backwards – the cord end up.

Sam shook his head. "My…no one." Great, very smooth. She'll never suspect a thing.

"Your no one?" she repeated, laughing as she did. "Must've been very important."

"Oh it wasn't," he assured her, sitting back in his chair and consequently almost falling over.

"Okay, you don't have to convince me," she teased.

He cocked his head to the side. "Are you…Are you _jealous,_ Mercedes?"

"What?" She was turning red. "No, I'm not jealous. I was just making conversation."

"Because you don't have to be jealous," he went on to say in that same, cool tone. "There's nothing for you to be worried about."

"I'm not worried," she insisted. "Okay, maybe I'm a _little_ worried because I maybe kind of totally forgot that it's Valentine's Day."

"Is it?" he asked, running a hand through his hair. "Oh my god, I totally forgot," he lied. "We can still do something – I mean, if you want to."

"I want to," she agreed quickly. "I want to."

"Alright," he said with a grin. "Let's say your place? Seven?"

"I'd like that."

She stood there a moment longer, a small smile on her face, before turning around and walking back the way she came. She looked over her shoulder one last time before turning the corner and disappearing.

He sighed and dragged his fingers down his face. Then he picked the phone back up and checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening.

"Where were we?"

* * *

><p>Dave was taking a drive for once in his life.<p>

A drive as in he was the one behind the wheel for a change. No limousines, no drivers, no escorted cars, no elusive black SUVs. Just him, the car, and the mixed CD in the stereo that was blaring through the speakers.

There was something about driving that calmed him; perhaps the simplicity of it. Press the gas to go, press the brake to stop. Go on green, slow on yellow, stop on red. It was programmed into him.

He liked the clicking sound of the blinker as he changed lanes or made a turn. He liked gradually slowing down to a stop and cruising at his own speed when no one was behind him. Why was everyone always in such a rush anyways? They weren't really _going_ anywhere - just constrained by time.

This was _easy_ and it was easier without any actual destination. He could turn wherever he pleased, drive how fast he wanted, change as many lanes as his heart desired. He could go on the freeway and not worry about getting stuck in traffic because all he needed was to think.

His CD finished and he was about to pop in another one when the radio came on before he could do so. It was set to the station he always listened to – the sports station. A fact he was sorely regretting right about now.

"David Karofsky has _finally_ left the Chargers," the radio personality greeted him.

"_He_ left or they purged themselves _of_ him?" his co-host asked.

"A valid question, my friend," the host replied, continuing with this friendly banter. "Sources claim it was a mutual parting, but there are rumors unfolding from within the NFL. Some say he begged not to be kicked off the team, even negotiating his salary to almost nothing – he was_ that_ desperate – but they still got rid of him. Others say he was so upset that he threw a rather public scene in the Chargers' locker room. No one can quite seem to pin down the truth, but I believe it was one of those derivatives."

"Give the man a break," the co-host said. "He's lost his team and possibly his whole career in one day. Dave, if you're listening, let me give you some _real_ man-to-man advice: just give up. Quit while you're ahead and you still have your dignity intact."

Dave took his eyes off the rode just for a second, searching for the button to change the station when suddenly he crashed into the van in front of him. He'd pressed on the gas when he meant to hit the brakes which resulted in a collision that threw him forward against the wheel.

There was sickening crunching noise as either his or the van's – which was a horrendous shade of pink, he noted – bumper took a hit. He could see the back doors of the van folding in like it was happening in slow motion. Then it was over and the shuddering of the impact ceased.

The radio crackled on.

"How much lower can the man get?"

* * *

><p>Mike was upset – something he wasn't very often.<p>

He rubbed his forehead from where it'd hit the steering wheel and jabbed his emergency blinkers three more times than necessary. He turned around to look into the back of the van and he could see sunlight streaming in through the back doors where the metal was twisted inwards.

He turned back around and punched the steering wheel, emitting a sharp honk. "Goddamnit," he said to himself.

Blaine was going to _kill_ him if the delivery schedule was thrown off.

He got out of his car and walked around to the back of the van to inspect the damage. Oh god, the bumper was hanging off, threatening to clank onto the blacktop at any given second. Shit, shit, shit, the door was hanging on its hinges and the other was smashed inwards, crushing several arrangements.

"No, no, no," Mike moaned, running his hands along the edge of the door. "Not today – _please_ not today. Any other day but today, I'm _begging_ you."

He didn't know who he was pleading with, but this could _not_ be happening.

Mike was seeing red – no, worse – he was seeing _pink_.

The idiot driver got out of his car and walked up to inspect his front bumper – which seemed to be perfectly fine, if you asked Mike. Maybe he should put a few man-made dents in it, if you know what he meant.

"Oh, man," the other driver said, adjusting the bill of his baseball cap.

Who did this guy think he was anyways? He had on these massive sunglasses which he probably couldn't see through and had his hat pulled down as far as it would go. Maybe he was really ugly, Mike thought to himself.

"I'm so sorry," the man apologized to Mike. "It was my fault."

"Yeah, it was your fault!" Mike countered. "Here I am – _a law-abiding citizen_ – sitting at a red light, trying to do my job and some idiot comes crashing into my van! Do you have any idea the damage you've done?" he went on to say. "This isn't even my van – it's my company's van and this is my _livelihood._" He totally could've gotten that degree in theater.

"Hey, I said I was sorry," the guy told him, holding up his hands in surrender. "It's completely my fault – I was messing with the radio."

"You were 'messing with the radio'?" Mike repeated angrily. "You did all this because you were _messing with the radio?_" He crossed his arms. "Well I can see this was a very pressing issue in your life."

"I'm sorry for any inconvenience I've brought upon you," the other man told him wearily. He was digging around in his wallet and he pulled out a card, which he offered to Mike. "Just call this number and my people will take care of it."

"Your_ people?_" Mike scoffed. "Your people? I'll have _my_ people handle this, buddy. Do you know who my people are? My _wife._ And she'll be on your ass – she'll have a few choice words say to you, let me assure you." He shook his head and looked at the card. "_My people,_" he repeated scornfully. "Who do you think you – _David Karofsky?_" he read off the card.

He took a step back and inspected the man in front of him.

"Oh my God, _David Karofsky ran into my flower van,_" he muttered, mostly to himself. "Do you have any idea how great of a story this is going to make back at the shop?"

"I'm really sorry," David said yet again.

"No, this is _fantastic,_" Mike gushed. "I_ love_ you, man. You're the best quarterback in the league. I'm _such_ a huge fan," he went on to say as he brushed off David's shoulder. "I've followed you since you played college football. Oh god, that sounded stalker-ish. I swear, I'm not a stalker," he babbled. "I'm just a dedicated fan is all. I'm respectful."

"I appreciate it," the other man said with a small smile.

"Yeah, man. You bring in all those championships and after one fumble they think you should call it quits." Mike shook his head. "That's gratitude for you."

"Don't I know it," he mumbled.

"Look, I know it's a weird situation, but do you, uh, think I could get your autograph?" Mike asked, already holding out a sharpie and the only surface he had to write on: his hat. "It'd mean so much to me."

"Sure," David said, signing his name. "As long as you don't sue me."

Mike laughed, maybe a little louder than he should've. "I wouldn't dream of it. Alright, I'd say everything is in order for now. I'll, uh, give your _people_ a call."

"I'll cover all the damage," Dave promised, holding his hand out to shake Mike's. Needless to say, the latter obliged gladly and extremely enthusiastically.

"Thank you, Thank you _so_ much," Mike told him. Did he just thank a quarterback for damaging his van? "Take care."

Dave got back into his car and, with one last wave to Mike, drove away.

Mike pulled out his phone and hit the number 3 on his speed dial.

"Blaine?" he said into the phone. "We've got a situation here…"

* * *

><p>"How could you have let this happen?" Blaine asked Mike, his frustration clear in his voice.<p>

They were in a parking lot near the accident site – where Mike had driven _very carefully_ – and were transferring the arrangements that could be salvaged into the back-up pink van Blaine had driven over.

"I didn't _do_ anything!" Mike reminded him. "I was at a red light, remember? I wasn't even moving!"

"I'm sorry," Blaine apologized. "It's just been a rough day," he explained as he transferred more arrangements.

"What happened back at the shop anyways?" Mike asked. "With that surgeon guy? You looked pissed."

"I _was,_" Blaine answered. "I still am." He sat on the back of the van, letting Mike do the rest of the work. "I'm in this situation, Mike, and it's absolute _shit._ I don't know what to do."

"Spill," Mike ordered.

Blaine sighed and sat back. "That guy, in the shop. That was Jesse."

"Jesse?" Mike repeated. "As in _the_ Jesse? _Jesse_ Jesse? _Kurt's_ Jesse?"

Blaine nodded solemnly.

Mike gave him a knowing look, his eyebrows raised. "And you saw him, got jealous, and realized your true feelings for Kurt?" he guessed.

"_What?_" Blaine nearly shouted. "No, Mike. _Focus._ It's put me in this awkward situation with Kurt…"

"What's the problem? Do you want to tell Kurt that his boy toy bought him flowers and ruin the surprise and romance of it all with your annoying enthusiasm that makes me want to wring your neck sometimes?"

"0 for 2," Blaine retorted. "No. That guy –_ Jesse_ - " He ground his teeth in distaste. "He bought two arrangements, Mike. And one was for his _wife._"

He waited a moment for that to sink in.

"Shit," Mike muttered.

"You can say that again," Blaine sighed, resting a hand on the back of his head. "I don't know what to do. Do I tell Kurt or do I let him find out on his own time? I really don't know what to do – this will_ kill_ him, Mike. He's been so happy for the first time in his life and now it's up to _me_ to ruin it all?" He shook his head. "Where's the justice?"

"Are you sure you want my advice?"

"Yes," Blaine pleaded. Then he thought about it. "Well, maybe. I mean…most likely? That depends, what _is_ your advice?"

Mike was standing in front of Blaine and he was incredibly solemn. "I think the real question," he started, "Is this: If the situation were reversed – would you want Kurt to tell _you?_"

Blaine thought about it. "Yeah, I would."

"Then you know what you have to do."

"Yeah," Blaine agreed. "I do." He got up and continued helping Mike move everything to the other van. "Why do you have to be so sensitive, Mike?"

"It's Tina's fault," Mike explained. "Every Saturday she makes me watch a romantic comedy. She also makes me read romance novels – but that's for a different reason entirely."

Blaine just looked at him, suppressing a laugh. Mike swatted him over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

"Hey, I know my stuff!" he told Blaine. "You'll be thanking me for my insight one day."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thank you guys for the support and the messages - I adore every last one of you as much as Blaine adores Kurt and vice versa (:_

_Looks like this will definitely be continuing through next week. Shh, Valentine's Day is every day._

**_Review and send me fuzzies!_**


	10. Chapter 10

"Okay, so if Geoffrey has two dollars in his left pocket and five dollars in his right pocket, how much money does he have altogether?"

"Five!" A voice called out

"Ten?"

"Three."

"Kids, what did I say about raising our hands?" Kurt asked.

A little girl named Lucy sitting in the front row raised her hand. "He has seven dollars," she answered when called upon.

"Very good," Kurt complimented her. "Can you please read the next problem in the book out loud, Lucy?"

"Sally buys three apples at the…" She was stuck on a word.

"Grocery store," Kurt supplied from his desk.

"Grocery store," she recited. "She gave one apple each to her two sisters. How many does she have left?"

There was a knock on the door. Kurt walked over as the children muttered to one another. He opened the door to reveal a huge flower arrangement hiding the face of its deliverer.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" came a familiar, chipper voice.

Kurt took the flowers from Blaine, giving his friend a one-armed hug.

"Everyone, this is one of my best friends, Blaine," Kurt announced.

"_Hi, Blaine,_" the chorused loudly.

"Read to yourselves for a moment," he told them.

He set the arrangement down on his desk and clapped his hands together excitedly. "Wow, this is _beautiful,_" he sighed. He reached down and grabbed the attached card, reading it out to Blaine. "To my wonderful boyfriend, Happy Valentine's Day. I miss you already. Love, Jesse." He held it to his chest and grinned like a fool - but he didn't care.

"Yeah, about that..." Blaine started.

"Did you meet him?" Kurt interrupted. "Did he come into the shop this morning before he left? What did you think of him? Isn't he _handsome?_"

"Yeah, I met him. He was…different than you described."

"Did you like him? Did he like _you?_" Kurt kept on rambling. "Did he know that you knew me?"

"I doubt it," Blaine told him. "Look, I really need to talk to you – it's important. Could we go out in the hallway for a minute?"

Kurt looked back towards his students (who weren't reading at all) then back to Blaine. "I'm in the middle of a lesson…"

"Just a minute, I swear. It's really important," Blaine promised.

"Alright," Kurt agreed. He spotted Parker and beckoned him over. "Parker, I need to talk to Blaine outside for a minute. Can you keep an eye on everyone? If anything goes wrong, come and get me _immediately_."

"I can handle it," Parker insisted. He puffed out his chest bravely.

"Of course you can," Kurt said with a smile. He cleared his throat and all the kids hushed up. "Everyone, I'm going to be right outside that door. Parker is in charge for right now and you guys better behave or I'm keeping you inside for your last recess."

Gasps rippled around the room as the children tried to imagine that unspeakable horror. Kurt looked around the room once more, then he was following Blaine outside.

"What's wrong?" he asked Blaine as soon as the door shut behind them. "Is it Jer-bear?"

"No," Blaine said. "Why do you always assume everything bad has to be because of Jer-b…Jeremiah?"

"There's nothing _bad_ about this situation," Kurt pointed out. "You're in love, _I'm_ in love – what's the problem?"

"It's Jesse," Blaine told him, looking down at his own two shoes.

"Jesse?" Kurt repeated. "Didn't you get my text? I'm going to San Francisco right after school lets out," he said happily. "I'll be there by dinnertime."

"Please," Blaine begged. "Don't do it."

"What? Why not?" Kurt asked. "It was your idea in the first place! You told me I should go and I thought to myself, 'Hey, Blaine's right.' And I got myself a ticket." He folded his arms across his chest. "I thought you would be happy for me." He couldn't understand why Blaine looked so distraught; so torn.

"I am happy for you - I _was,_" he corrected himself, "But I was wrong," Blaine told him. "You shouldn't go."

Then it dawned on him. "Is this because you met Jesse?" he asked Blaine. "In the shop this morning?"

Blaine looked like he was about to cry with relief. "Yes, that's _exactly_ it - "

"And you're afraid," Kurt guessed. "You're thinking, 'Gosh, Jesse is such a great guy and Kurt is _so_ lucky.' And you're worrying that things between us – between you and I – could really change now."

"_No,_" Blaine shook his head as he grabbed Kurt's arms. "Why would anything change between us?"

"You think I'm going to be spending more time with Jesse and it's going to affect our friendship, right?"

"That's not it _at all_ – "

"Nothing's going to change," Kurt went on, ignoring him. "I'm still going to go with you to see all the movies that Jer-bear won't go watch. I'm still going to come into the shop every single day after school and we're still going to eat junk food at your house and throw our leftover crumbs to the ducks." He smiled at Blaine. "I'm still going to call you right after every disasterous parent-teacher conference and you're still going to volunteer to help out in bake sales on Back To School nights even thought I've told you repeatedly that you have enough to do already." That got a laught out of Blaine. "We're still going to need each other. _Nothing's going to change,_" he assured him.

"Kurt, that's not what I'm trying to tell you - "

"Mr. Hummel?" Parker called as he cracked open the door. "I think we have a problem in here – I sense mutiny."

"Okay," Kurt said, turning back to Blaine. "I _really_ have to go, I shouldn't be out of the classroom like this."

"Wait," Blaine said, holding onto his arm.

"I have to go," Kurt said more firmly. "I'll call you after work, but I have to go now."

He ripped his arm out of Blaine's grasp and walked back into the classroom.

As he got everyone settled again (a fist-fight was about to break out over a box of crayons – the 64 pack with the built in sharpener) and gotten back into the lesson, he looked towards the door again.

He could see Blaine's face through the rectangular window. He stared at Kurt for a long moment, looking as if he was going to open the door again. But he didn't – he just stood there.

Then he walked away.

* * *

><p>"What the fuck was that?" Mike demanded after Blaine retold the story when he got back to the van. "You call that <em>trying?<em>"

"I tried," Blaine insisted. "I mean, how do you tell someone you care about that they're being cheated on? How does somebody _hear_ that?"

"You had several chances to tell him."

"He wouldn't let me talk! He kept going _on and on_ about how I'm secretly fearful that our friendship is going to change because he and Jesse are this serious thing now."

"Well are you?"

"I'm a little bit more concerned that Jesse St. James is an asshole and he's _married_."

"You should've blurted it out, shouted it, done _something,_" Mike persisted. "You take him by the shoulders and you say 'Jesse is a lying, cheating scumbag! I'm the one for you!' _That's_ how you tell him."

"I tried," Blaine repeated, narrowing his eyes. "And I'm_ not_ the one for him, Mike - give it a damn break. He said he'd call me after school – I'll tell him then, I swear."

"Over the phone? That's cold."

"What? If I'd told him right now in the hallway how would he be able to make it through the rest of the school day? He'd be _heartbroken._"

"You tell yourself that _now,_ after the fact," Mike argued. "That, my friend, is what we psychologists like to call hindsight bias. You're just trying to justify your half-assed actions with just as half-assed excuses and it's not going to work."

"So now you're a psychologist too?" Blaine asked his friend dubiously.

"I could've been," Mike said with a shrug. "But the point is that you fucked up."

"Yeah," Blaine agreed. "I did."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sorry, guys! It's been a really busy week and I haven't had any time to write, but I'm getting some work done at the moment (:_

_**Review, lovelies!**  
><em>


	11. Chapter 11

_2:45 pm_

"No one's going to be there," Quinn moaned into the phone.

"Where are you right now?" Kurt demanded. "If you're in public, please telling me you're not crying."

Quinn sniffled on the other line. "I'm not crying." Well, no one ever said she was an actress.

"_Quinn._"

"I'm in my office!" she snapped. He could hear her blowing her nose and whimpering silently. It was pathetic, but he'd be damned if he didn't still love her. "I've penciled in my self-pity so don't worry, I'm not putting off work."

"Honey, if you're scheduling your grief, you really need to get a life."

"I was going to have a social life _tonight,_" she pointed out. "But now it's all ruined."

"It's the city, Quinn. _No one_ RSVP's anymore – don't worry about it! They want you to think that they're got plans or a hot date. Here's the inside secret: they really don't. They're all as pathetic – I mean _free_ – as you and they'll show up. Trust me."

"You were supposed to be there too," she sniveled. "But now you're bailing on me."

"I'm not bailing on you. I'm just…" He thought about it. "Okay, it _looks_ like I'm bailing on you – but I'm not really. I'm just making the most out of this day."

"Yeah, it sounds nice when you put it that way, but that's not going to work on me," she pouted. "You were supposed to come over to my house and we were supposed to hate every single man who's ever wormed their way into our lives and we were supposed to get too drunk to care."

"And that sounds brilliant," he assured her. "But I really want to spend a Valentine's Day enjoying myself – not hating everyone for a change."

"I hate that you're so in love," she growled. He could hear the thud of her head against the desk. "Fuck you and your surgeon boyfriend."

"Be nice," he chastised. "And I just might," he added purely for spite.

"_Kurt_," she groaned. "Be serious for once – this is a disaster. What about all that food I ordered and all the money I spent on decorations? Oh my god, all the red and pink streamers lying around in my house are so ironic now."

"They were always ironic," he reminded her. "And as for all that food, if worse comes to worst you can save it and we can eat it all together. I've always been a sucker for Italian."

"Why do you have to be so optimistic?" she sobbed. "What am I going to _do?_"

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad of a condition are you in right now?" he asked.

She cried softly for a minute as she thought it over. "A nine point seven five."

"You always say that," he replied sourly.

She sighed. "But this time I mean it."

"I think it's time for the paper bag."

"I can't – I used it last time and I threw it away when I got home."

"Just reach over into that drawer and open it – I had the foresight to replace it."

He could hear her fumbling about her drawers, digging around, and her little cry of relief when she found the brown paper bag.

"What would I do without you?" she asked sadly. He could hear her opening the bag.

"Just take deep breaths and I'll text you before I leave," he promised. "I have something to take care of at the moment."

"No, no, don't leave me," she begged. "Not yet."

"I have to go," he repeated. "You'll be fine. You can get drunk by yourself."

"But I could do that on an ordinary day!"

"I'm leaving. Drink a cocktail for me," he told her. "Love you."

He could hear her breathing heavily into the paper bag before clicking the "end" button.

* * *

><p><em>3:00pm<em>

"What are we doing here?" Mike asked.

They were parked right next to the bridge that led to Blaine's house. Lovestruck couples were walking hand-in-hand beside the river, some pausing to kiss beneath the archways. It would've been near-sickening if they didn't have the excuse of the day.

"I have to get my passport," Blaine explained. "If Kurt won't listen to me and he goes to the airport, I'm going to have to go stop him. I'm thinking worst-case-scenario here," he went on to say. "I hope he'll take my advice not to go at face value and save me a trip."

"Just hurry up," Mike said, reclining his seat and putting his hands behind his head. "We're on a tight schedule, you know."

"Yes, I know," Blaine said as he narrowed his eyes. "And if I recall correctly, it's due to _you_ wrecking your van."

"Keep your perspective," Mike muttered. "Go get what you need to get."

Blaine climbed out of the driver-side door, shutting it behind him. "Well, I haven't flown anywhere in like five years so I may need a few minutes," he admitted sheepishly.

Mike sighed. "Hurry up – _tick, tock, tick, tock._"

"Okay, I'm going," Blaine said, breaking out into a jog as he hit the bridge. "I'll be back in two minutes," he called over his shoulder.

Mike watched him run across the bridge and he shook his head. "He's not going to be back in two minutes," he said out loud.

He reached over to where Blaine had left the keys lying on the driver's seat, put them in the ignition, and turned on the radio as he settled in for a long wait.

* * *

><p>Blaine <em>scoured<em> the first floor.

He looked absolutely _everywhere_ – the kitchen, the sofa, the bathroom (though why a passport would be in the bathroom, he really didn't know. But, hey, stranger things had happened). He checked the cabinets above the washing machine and dryer where he kept his wallet and keys, he searched every single drawer he came across. Nothing. He came up empty-handed.

"Shit," he swore under his breath as he jogged up the stairs. "It's gotta be around here somewhere."

He began rummaging through his nightstand before he moved on to picking the pockets of every pair of pants he'd ever owned. When that proved unsuccessful, he started in on the walk-in closet, going through anything that had a pocket: jackets, shirts, slacks. He looked through the containers and shoeboxes on the floor.

Blaine wrung his hands and kicked a stray shoe out of frustration. He began to plow through Jeremiah's half of the closet when – _wait_. Why were half the shirts missing? Wasn't this closet full just this morning? Hadn't they renegotiated the shirt to pant ratio because they both had so many clothes? So why was this side practically empty now?

He looked down and saw that Jeremiah's shoes were gone – not just his dress shoes that he wore to work, but all of them. In fact, it looked like someone had ransacked his side of the closet in a hurry. Hangers were scattered on the closet floor and shirts were half-hung – like someone tried to pull them down in a rush, but they got caught.

Blaine ran his fingers along a sweater – the one he'd bought Jeremiah for Christmas. He was going to resume his search when he heard movement from the bedroom. He turned around slowly and looked out the door, but there was no one to be found.

He took a step back towards the closet but stopped abruptly when he spotted a suitcase laying open on the bed, half full of clothes.

_Jeremiah's _clothes.

Blaine put down the shorts in his hands and started towards the bed. He felt numb as he rifled through the suitcase piled high with folded shirts, jeans, socks. But amongst the clothes there were other things – pictures, notebooks, books, CDs, movies, phone charger, laptop…Things that made it quite clear that this was no overnighter.

"Jeremiah?" he called out weakly. "Are you here?"

There was a rustling from beneath the mattress as someone crawled out from under it. Then Jeremiah was standing on the opposite side of the bed looking equal parts disheveled and guilty.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Blaine asked, his gaze alternating between Jeremiah and the open suitcase. The clothes clutched in Jeremiah's fists didn't escape his sight either. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

"I'm taking my lunch break," was his explanation.

"Are you…A-Are you going somewhere?" Blaine asked lightly, hoping the answer would be a business trip or something.

"Umm...I can't do this anymore," was the only reply he received. Jeremiah was staring pointedly at the suitcase, avoiding Blaine's eyes like the plague.

"A 'no' would've sufficed," Blaine said with a small smile. It was all he could muster. "What's going on?" he asked after a long pause. "What's _really_ going on? And don't lie to me."

"There's…there's s-someone else," Jeremiah stammered. "There has been for a while...I'm sorry."

"Well don't try to preserve my feelings or anything," Blaine told him with a tight smile. He blinked away the tears that were clouding his vision. He decided to sit down on the bed, his back facing Jeremiah. "And you couldn't have said something about this _before_ today?"

"I was torn," the other man explained, his words spilling out quickly now as he came around the end of the bed towards Blaine. "I thought I loved you and I didn't want to hurt you. So I thought if I could fully commit to you and try to put it aside…" He reached out to touch Blaine's shoulder, but thought better of it, retracting his hand.

"So it was a test," Blaine realized. "You told me you loved me too this morning because you thought you _should_ – not because you actually did."

"I _thought_ I meant it," he explained. "But after you left I couldn't stop thinking about how wrong it felt. I didn't want to be with you anymore – I don't."

Blaine opened his mouth, taking in a breath to supply his response, but nothing came out. Because what can you say to something like that? What jumble of words can you connect to make a good rebuttal against someone who's basically just said "Hey, I don't like you anymore."

There's no way to describe that feeling – the way your world bottoms out when you realize that someone who used to _love_ you, someone who used to hold you on a pedestal and praise you for being no one other than yourself, tells you that they've changed their mind. That, hey, maybe you're not as great as they initially thought you were and all those things – those miniscule habits and day-to-day quirks you held – aren't attractive at all. That, in fact, not only have they changed their opinion about you, they've moved on. And not only have they moved on, they've moved on to someone else without the decency to tell you first. No, they just drop this bomb on you and you're supposed to respond at the drop of a needle.

"Then let me make it easy for you," Blaine choked out. "Get out of my house."

"Blaine, I'm really sorry – I wanted to tell you so many times."

"But instead of just saying, 'Blaine, it's over between us,' you took the time and the thought to tell me you that you _loved_ me," Blaine pointed out. "And, after the fact, you try to leave me while I'm at_ work_ on _Valentine's Day_ - " He didn't know why he added that other than it was the truth and that it sucked. " – Then finally,_ finally_, you decide to tell me there's someone else in the picture."

"When you put it like that - "

"No, Jeremiah," Blaine said loudly, holding up his hand. "You know what? _Fuck you._"

Jeremiah sighed and shook his head. "I'm not the bad guy here, Blaine."

Blaine laughed at that one – he just had to. "I'm not even going to get into it with you, Jer. Pack your shit, leave the key on the table downstairs, and I want all traces of your existence gone by the time I get home from work. Okay, thanks. You're a pal," Blaine said through gritted teeth.

And with that, he left.

* * *

><p>Blaine could hear the strains of hip hop music blaring through the afternoon haze. He hastily wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as he crossed the bridge back towards where he'd parked the van.<p>

Somewhere between the front door and the first plank of the bridge, his anger had ebbed away into pain. But he'd have to suck it up for the sake of the rest of the world. There was no room for crying on Valentine's Day in Blaine Anderson's book and he'd be damned if some...some no-good _jerk_ was going to ruin it for him. At least that's what he was telling himself as he made his way across the bridge.

He groaned as he realized the music was coming from the van – _his_ van, the freaking flower van. Mike was on the sidewalk, dancing and doing back flips. There was a small crowd drawn around him, clapping in time with the beat and shouting out encouragements as his feet slid across the pavement, perfectly in time with the music.

As mad as he was about this, Blaine knew all too well how Mike had the tendency to dance when he got bored and, to be fair, Blaine was the one who left him with the keys to the van. Really, what did he expect?

Mike had thrown his hat on the ground at some point – you know, the pink cap Blaine had put his hard earned money into when he ordered it and about seventy others for all of his employees – and now dollar bills and coins were being tossed into it. It was already so full that bulls were spilling out onto the concrete.

Blaine huffed and crossed his arms, annoyed that he was being blocked off by the crowd – which was now so thick he couldn't push through even if he wanted to. He (impatiently) waited for the song to end, at which point he didn't clap, but seethed silently until enough people had walked away.

"Okay," Blaine called out to the remaining people. "Thank you everyone, but we_ really_ need to get back to work now."

This was met by groans by both the people and Mike, who slumped his shoulders and snapped his fingers like "_oh darn_." Blaine bent down and scooped up the hat, shoving it into Mike's hands angrily as the crowd disintegrated to nothing.

"Hey, what's your problem? Mike asked. "I was just having fun. _You're_ the one who took like half an hour." He scoffed. "Two minutes, my ass," he muttered under his breath.

"How about you just stay out of trouble and do your _job?_" Blaine shouted. "You know, the one I _hired_ you to do? The one I _pay_ you to do every single day?"

"I don't need you to _remind_ me about that, Blaine," Mike countered. "What is - " he started. Then he stopped and he paused as he really looked at Blaine - probably noticing the red splotches beneath his eyes and the anger etched along his jawline. Then he took a step back and nodded to himself. "…_Oh_."

"What?" Blaine spat.

"He was there, wasn't he?" Mike realized.

Blaine shifted uncomfortably. "Yes."

Mike nodded again, leaning against the van. "And it's over."

"There's…someone else," Blaine mumbled bitterly. "So I made it pretty simple and took myself out of the equation." He chuckled without any real humor. "The other man."

"Look, that's not true," Mike said, placing a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "He was an ass – he cheated on you. No one deserves th - "

"Wait," Blaine interjected, realizing something. "And what about _you?_" he asked, eyes narrowed. He shoved Mike's hand away from him and took a step back. "How did you _know_ this was going to happen to me?"

"I didn't _know!_" Mike insisted. "Of course I didn't _know_. Shit, how can anyone predict something like that? I had a…f-feeling," he stuttered, looking sheepish.

"A feeling?" Blaine hissed. "A _feeling?_"

Mike held his hands out in front of him as Blaine began to advance. "Yeah, a feeling. I don't know…Something about Jeremiah never sat right with me – I never thought he was good for you."

"And you couldn't have tried to tell me this? Earlier?" Blaine demanded. "You could've saved me a hell of a lot of heartbreak, Mike! Shit, you're one of my best friends."

"I tried to tell you!" Mike said, rounding the back of the van. "But you were always caught up in your lovey-dovey moods and you wouldn't listen to me because you were going on and on about how Jeremiah was _so_ romantic and _so_ great and _so_ perfect…"

"I get it!" Blaine barked, stopping short. "But you couldn't have sat me down and had an honest to God talk about how you thought I was in trouble?" he asked in a softer, more pleading tone.

"I just…" Mike started. "Well I - " He sighed and shook his head. "You wouldn't have listened to me, Blaine. You were in love."

"Okay, that is the most bullshit I've ever heard come out of your mouth," Blaine accused. "If you had _really_ wanted to warn me, you would've warned me. But you didn't, Mike. Okay? You _didn't_ - and _that_ is the bottom fucking line."

"You're right," Mike said after a moment. "I should've been a better friend and told you how I felt about Jeremiah. But come on, would you have listened to me?"

"We'll never know now!" Blaine shouted, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "That's kind of the point. You didn't even try. You should've had the decency to at least _try_, Mike."

"I know that now," Mike said in a softer tone. "And you do too."

Blaine groaned and kicked the back tire of the van with as much force as he could muster. "_Please_ don't make this about Kurt. God, Mike - that is the _last_ thing I need right now."

"It's about Kurt and you know it," his best friend insisted.

"I have to stop him, don't I?" Blaine moaned as he let his head drop against the side of the van with a clunk. "I have to tell him and stop him from getting on that plane."

"That's the bottom fucking line, right?"

Blaine turned so he could see Mike and gave him a small smile.

"Right."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hello all! Many, many apologies for not updating last week or a majority of this week. School has been crazy and I had so many papers, projects, and presentations (oh my!) to prepare for. Things are calming down a little bit and I can kind of concentrate on this story again, so I'll be putting all my efforts in this to get ahead on chapters (:_

_Yes, we're taking this thing into March. If that's a problem, I encourage you to reference the fanfiction author's handbook: page 23, section C, subsection VII, bullet point number three, which eloquently and concisely states "Whateva whateva I do whateva I want." Hehe, but on a serious note thanks for all the encouragements with reviews and alerts - you guys rock!_

**_Review and make my week!_**


	12. Chapter 12

"Why are we still standing here?" Mike asked, shaking Blaine's shoulders. "Let's get going!"

"To what 'we' are you referring?" Blaine asked. "_We_ can't go anywhere because _somebody_ needs to deliver the rest of the flowers in this van. Or have you already forgotten what day it is?"

"_Shit_," Mike groaned. He began slapping the palm of his hand into his head repeatedly as if he were trying to force his brain to come up with a solution. After a minute of this, intensifying as it went on, he exclaimed, "I've got it! Whoa…" He stumbled a little.

"Dude, you've gotta come up with a better way to brainstorm," Blaine told him as he caught Mike under the arms.

"My car," Mike told him, regaining his sense of balance. "We can drive over to my house – you know it's just a block away – and you can take my car and I'll take the van to complete the deliveries."

Blaine wanted to say yes. He would've gone on foot to go claim Mike's car in a heartbeat, but he hesitated. "I don't know…"

"What don't you know?" Mike demanded. "You need to go stop Kurt, it's almost four!"

"But, Mike," Blaine explained, "That's your _car._ It's your pride and joy." He lowered his voice. "You told me that when Tina's not around, you call it 'baby'."

"Yeah, but - "

"And you're telling me – the most reckless driver you know – to take your baby in mid-afternoon traffic, in a mad rush, to go do this?"

Mike thought about it, looking a little close to tears, Blaine thought, but he took a deep breath and nodded. "It's what needs to be done," he proclaimed.

"I would owe you _forever_," Blaine declared as he started around towards the driver's side door.

"How about giving me and Tina a paid vacation?" Mike half-joked as he got into the passenger side.

"Done," Blaine agreed. "Whatever you want – it's yours."

"Blaine, I was _kidding_ - "

Blaine waved him away. "Done."

"I expect her back with a full tank by sun down," Mike instructed as Blaine took a sharp turn on his street.

"Half a tank," Blaine negotiated when they pulled up to Mike's driveway.

"This is _true love_ we're talking about here," Mike pointed out as he tossed Blaine the keys. "Don't skimp on true love, man."

"You're saying what's between you and your car is true love?" Blaine shook his head in mock disappointment. "Someone's gotta tell Tina."

"Not between me and my car, idiot," Mike scoffed, reaching out of the passenger side window to take a swat at Blaine's head as he passed. "Between you and Kurt."

Blaine stopped halfway to the car parked in the driveway. "Wait…What?"

"You know," Mike mused as he walked around the front of the van towards the driver's side. "The good thing about long drives – such as the one from here to the airport that you're about to embark on, young padawan – is that they give you time to think. _Think_, Blaine."

"Could you be just a _little_ more vague please?" Blaine asked sarcastically.

Mike put the van into drive. "Think about it."

Then he left Blaine standing in the driveway, keys in hand, and absolutely no clue what had just happened.

* * *

><p>Blaine's worst fear about driving was parking.<p>

Which is a weird thing when you think about it, because really a driver should fear the unpredictability of the road, not the destination. But the truth was that the human population was full of idiots; idiots who did not know _how to park._ There were those assholes who took up two parking spaces by parking crooked, those SUVs parked in compact car spaces. There were motorcycles parked in what would've been ideal parking spots when there were clearly labeled motorcycle parking spots towards the front of the lot – many of which were empty.

Most of all, Blaine wanted to be careful with Mike's so-called "baby". He didn't want to have to force his way into a spot and end up clipping another car or taking out his own headlight. Parking was not his forte and the airport parking lot wasn't the place to be putting it to the test either.

Of course the only spot he could find was as far as humanly possible from the vestibule itself. So he stole one last look at his watch before jumping out of the car and making a sprint for it.

It took him about ten minutes at break-neck speed to get through the lobby when he realized, he didn't have any idea where he was even headed. He skidded to a halt, already disheveled and out of breath. There was a customer service area, but the line was already full up – nothing ever went right at the air port.

There were a few ticket turnstiles, but they all had lines too. Blaine snuck a look at his watch. Shit, he didn't have time to stand in a line and wait – he had to find Kurt _now._ Actually, he had to find Kurt about twenty minutes ago, but you get the point.

He headed to the nearest window and ducked under the ropes outlining the line and cut in front, to the obvious oblivion to the person who was next in line.

"Excuse me, _buddy_, but I've been waiting here for half an hour - "

"This is an emergency," Blaine told him. He hunched over the counter and spoke directly into the speaker on his side of the window. "I have just one question and then I'll be on my way - "

"Sir," the female employee cut him off. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait in line just like everyone else."

"No, you don't understand, this is an_ emergency_."

"An emergency?" she repeated. "Is someone hurt?"

He rethought his words. "Okay, it's not an 'emergency' per say – as in literal, textbook definition of the word - but it's really, _really_ important and if you could just help direct me somewhere really quickly…"

"I'm afraid I can't help you - "

"I need to stop someone from getting on a plane!" Blaine exclaimed. "I just need to know which terminal is headed for San Francisco at five o' clock and I'll be on my way."

"I'm sorry, but - "

"Have you ever been in love?" Blaine blurted out, his voice nearing hysteria now. "This is bigger than lines. This is bigger than airplanes, take-offs, check-ins, and really bad plane food," he exclaimed, not even knowing why he was saying any of this. "People's lives are hanging in the balance here and I'm trying to help my best friend out."

She just stared at him, looking like she was only seconds from calling Security. Blaine lowered his voice, looking the employee in the eyes, trying to reach her humanity.

"I'm in love with my best friend," he said, surprising himself at the contrite confession. No sooner had the words left his lips that he realized, shit, _that's_ what Mike meant. And holy good God it was true. "He's the most important person in my entire world and I need to find him to tell him that he's about to ruin his life. Don't look at me like that," he told her when she started to look dubious. "This isn't a cliched moment exploited too much by the film industry. If this could be sorted out with a simple phone call, don't you think I would've tried that already? This is my last chance..."

"I'm sorry, but I can't help y - "

"Look, if I don't find him now, he's going to get on a plane and make the biggest mistake of his life. He's going to find out that the person he's dating is a jerk who's already married to someone else. Yeah, _married,_" he emphasized when he saw her hesitate. "And the only one who can tell him is me and I can't…I can't _stand_ the thought of him being hurt so if you could just - "

"Terminal 7," she whispered, sliding him something through the window.

He quickly pocketed what suspiciously looked like a ticket to that exact terminal and flight number as he mouthed, "Thank you."

"Now, sir," she said, loudly enough for the other people in line to hear. "I'm going to ask you one more time to either leave or take your place at the end of the line before I call security."

"Whoa, no need for that," Blaine said, playing along. "But I'll be writing a _strongly worded letter_ to the airline, mark my words."

And with that, he took off again, in the right direction this time.

* * *

><p>Kurt was finally in line to board his plane.<p>

And good thing, too. He'd been sitting in one of those annoying airport seats – the ones that never seemed to have a high enough back or a soft enough cushion for his derrière. He'd brought along a book to keep him busy, but his mind was wandering and his eyes held no dedication to the words on the page. He kept jiggling his foot and losing his place.

He kept telling himself that it was just those pre-surprise-flight nerves. This was how you were supposed to feel when you're about to show up in the doorway of your boyfriend's hotel room after a two hour flight, wasn't it? Or maybe he had a fear of flying that he'd repressed in the last decade or so and now that he was flying alone, it was coming to the surface?

No, that couldn't be it, he reasoned. He just hated waiting. First, he'd gotten off from work as early as he could, rushed home to prepare an overnight bag, nearly _killed_ himself driving to the airport. Then there was getting all checked in, getting patted down by security to ensure that he wasn't planning on planting a bomb on the plane that he'd hidden in the ass of his jeans, and finding the right terminal – for what? So he could sit down and wait.

He needed to be doing something; he needed to be in motion. Otherwise he just felt like he was wasting his time. He was sure once he got in the air, all his pre-flight jitters would go away. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time, sighing as he realized only a minute had gone by since his last check.

"Attention passengers, Flight 113 is preparing to board now," came a cool, female voice over the intercom. "Flight 113 preparing to board now," it repeated.

"Finally," Kurt whispered to himself, gathering his school bag that doubled as his carry on.

He shoved the hardly read book inside of the main pouch before slinging the bag over his shoulder. He took his ticket and ID out of the front pocket and got in the already lengthy line. At this rate, he'd be the last one on board.

So there he was, standing in line to wait – _again._ That's when he heard it.

"Kurt!"

"Wha - "

Kurt barely had time to turn around when Blaine crashed into his chest. He stumbled back a few steps, but he felt hands gripping his shoulder, keeping him from falling down.

"Blai - "

"He's married," Blaine blurted out. "_Married._"

Kurt was only too aware of the eyes of the people towards the back of the line boring into the pair of them. He forced a small smile in their direction as if to assure them there was absolutely nothing to see. He turned to face Blaine, wearing that same semi-grimace as he spoke quietly, moving his lips as little as possible.

"Blaine," he said in his sugary-sweet voice. "What are you_ doing_ here?"

Blaine was panting and he looked, well, desperate. "He's married," he repeated slowly. "I tried to tell you - "

"If you mean Jesse," Kurt clarified, turning his back on the onlookers to face Blaine fully, "He _used_ to be married, yes. But he's divorced and with me now." He gave Blaine his patented scrunchy face of distaste. "I told you that when we first got together and you pressed the Spanish Inquisition on me, remember?"

"No, he's still married," Blaine nearly shouted. He moved closer to Kurt before he lowered his voice. "I delivered flowers to her. I saw her with my own two eyes – that and the ring on her finger."

"Then maybe you should go visit the optometrist annually like you're supposed to," Kurt heard himself spit back.

"Kurt…" Blaine shook his head and looked down at the ground. "Look, it's not…It's not _easy_ for me to tell you this." His voice was thicker now. "I tried," he began in a shaky tone. "I _tried_ telling you earlier."

"At the school?"

"Yes," Blaine said, sounding relieved. "Yes, that's it. And I feel horrible about letting you walk away then, but I'm here to make it right."

Kurt found himself shaking his head profusely. He felt bitterness towards Blaine; how could be telling him this – this _lie_? How could he have the nerve to look at Kurt with those big, innocent eyes and unload this whopper of a fabrication like this?

"You're wrong," he said in his strongest voice. He turned back to face the line, which hadn't budged even an inch.

Blaine put a hand on Kurt's shoulder – a hand he was sure was supposed to be comforting – which Kurt promptly swatted away with vehemence. That caught the attention of a few passerbies.

"Don't _touch_ me," he hissed, whirling around once more. "Just _who_ do you think you - "

"I'm being a _good friend,_" Blaine declared. "I don't want to hurt you Kurt. But, shit, you _need_ to hear this because I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want to know that I could've done something to prevent it when I do my best to put you back together. And I don't want you to hate me when you find out that I knew first."

"Hurt?" Kurt whispered. "The only one hurting me right now is _you,_ Blaine. With your _lies._" He put a hand to Blaine's chest and forced him a step backwards – not exactly a shove, but it did the trick. "Jesse's with _me_ – no one else. Just me. He wouldn't…He wouldn't do that to me. His dad cheated on his mom and he…H-He swore he'd _never_ make anyone feel that way if he had anything to say about it."

"Well I'm sorry to hear that," Blaine choked out, looking sorely wounded that Kurt had just lashed out at him. "But he's not just cheating on you, you know." His eyes were glistening but he was fierce with his words – cutting Kurt in just the right way. "How do you think _she_ feels? How do you think_ I_ felt, listening to her go on and on about her husband and how wonderful and thoughtful he is? She tipped me twenty bucks." He laughed with near-hysteria bordering in his voice. "Imagine that. She tipped me for delivering a bouquet _identical in every way_ to the one her husband sent to his lover: you."

"Just stop!" Kurt demanded, holding his hands up. "Stop…_talking._"

"Kurt - "

"Don't you '_Kurt_' me. You have tried to talk me out of every boyfriend I've ever had, Blaine Anderson – don't think I've forgotten."

"But this isn't like th – "

"Robert Hamner," Kurt recalled. "You were sure he was secretly straight because he had a calendar with a different super model for each month."

"Hey, I saw the way he was looking at Miss February. And he _did_ turn out to be straight," Blaine pointed out. "He's been married to Cindy Stevens for like five years."

"Or how about Tyler McLennan?" Kurt asked. "You Facebook stalked him - "

"I did _not_ Facebook stalk him! His profile was set to public – anyone could see it."

" – and you were convinced he had a thing for his English professor."

"It's not my fault he was always posting pictures of her _butt_ on his wall," Blaine whispered. "And he did end up getting suspended for faking a seizure in her class so that she would perform mouth-to-mouth on him."

"I don't care if he was a perv – he was _my_ perv," Kurt retorted. "Ignore that. What about…" He scoured his dating memories. "Okay, but there was nothing wrong with Patrick Carter," he pointed out. "I mean, there was_ nothing_ wrong with him," he repeated, suddenly overwhelmed with memories of that body and all it could do.

"Kurt, focus – _focus_," Blaine said shaking him by the shoulders. "And that guy turned out to be a sex addict."

"But that was after we dated!"

"The point still stands!" Blaine objected. "And none of that matters anyways because this is completely different. I'm not telling you I'm wary about your boyfriend's hair - "

"John Damon," Kurt recalled.

"Or that his _voice_ bothers me - "

"Daniel Cambridge."

" – Or even that I suspect he secretly has a thing for me because he texts me at three in the morning."

"Was that Paul or Jake? I can't remember too well…"

"Look," Blaine said, giving him a shake again. "I'm telling you as your best friend – the person who cares the most about you. No, that's not up for debate, shut up. I'm here, looking you in the eyes, and telling you Jesse is cheating on you. It's not a question, it's a fact. And I need you to understand."

"But - "

"I don't _want_ to be the person to tell you this," Blaine went on. "It's not_ fair._ It's not fair that _I_ have to see the hurt in your eyes as I tell you this – only Jesse should see that. He should be the one telling you, but he hasn't. Because he's an asshole, Kurt. He's not worth your time and your energy. I drove all the way down here to stop you from getting on that plane and finding out the hard way that Jesse St. James is not, in fact, in San Francisco; that he's home with his wife."

"I'm sorry," Kurt said with a sad smile. "But I just can't take your word for it."

He turned around and walked a few steps forward, catching the sluggish line. He thought he'd heard Blaine turn around and shuffle away, so he was surprised when he heard Blaine's voice again – smaller this time.

"Do you think that Jeremiah is the one for me?" he asked Kurt.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Kurt replied, still avoiding looking at Blaine.

"Just answer the question. Do you think we belong together – Jeremiah and I?"

Kurt faltered, but only for a second. Almost undetectable. "Yeah, sure. Whatever makes you happy," he said hastily. "_I_ don't have to date him."

"That wasn't the question," Blaine retorted, walking up to Kurt and wedging himself in his field of vision. "Now look me in the eyes and tell me that Jeremiah is meant for me."

"I don't understand what the point of this is," Kurt shrugged. "I think he's fine. He's whatever." The he looked up at Blaine who was giving him hard eyes, silently pressing him to be honest. Be honest like he was supposedly being honest with Kurt. "Okay," he sighed. "Okay, I don't like him."

"Go on," Blaine pressed, crossing his arms and looking just a bit too smug that Kurt was confessing that he didn't approve of his boyfriend.

"I..." Kurt really, really didn't want to say it, but he wanted to wipe that smug grin right off Blaine's face. "I hate him. I don't know what it is, but he never seems as into you as you've been into him. And I _hate_ it that you're always putting two hundred percent into your relationship and he's putting like...twenty percent in." Now that he'd started, he couldn't bring himself to stop. "I hate that you tell me how much you're in love and how lucky you are to find him when I know - _I know_ - that you can find someone better. I just, I..." He looked towards the ceiling, willing himself to continue. "I think he's a rude, emotionless jerk. I think he's taking advantage of you and that's not fair. Because, goddamnit Blaine, you're the best person I know and you, of all people, don't deserve that."

Blaine stayed silent, pressing his lips together and looking upset.

"I'm sorry," Kurt apologized, rubbing Blaine's shoulder. "I'm sorry if any of that hurt you, but it's just how I feel..."

"Don't be sorry," Blaine told him. "Don't. You're right - about all of it. I broke up with Jeremiah today."

"Oh my god, Blaine. If I had any idea, I would've never said any of th - "

"Don't take it back," Blaine ordered. "You were being honest. Like you haven't been with me for a while where Jeremiah's concerned. Tell me the truth: you felt that way since the beginning."

It was Kurt's turn to look away. "Yes."

"And you never told me."

"No, I didn't."

"So this is me," Blaine went on to say, tear tracks already staining his cheek. "Telling you what you never had the guts to say to me. Jesse is _wrong_ for you. He's cheating on you the same way Jeremiah was cheating on me." He didn't even stop when Kurt gasped at this new piece of information. "He's the worst kind of person, Kurt - he's a _liar_. If there's one thing a man should be able to do, it's tell the people they care about the truth. And he can't do that on either account. I need you to believe me."

"Look, I'm sorry I never said anything about Jer-Bear." Blaine chuckled a little bit at the ridiculous name. "And I'm sorry about the way things ended between the two of you. But Jesse isn't cheating on me. I've been able to trust him so long, and I can't undermine that trust now. I can't suspect him of cheating and become paranoid. I just can't."

"You need proof?" Blaine asked, digging through his pocket. "Here. Here's proof."

"What is this?" Kurt asked sadly, looking down at the crumpled receipt Blaine had shoved in his hands.

"It's the order slip Jesse filled out this morning at the shop," Blaine said, closing Kurt's hand around it. "There's a phone number to his house - his real house. If you still don't believe me, give it a call," he said.

"I can't," Kurt protested, trying to hand Blaine back the receipt, but suddenly Blaine was too far away to be reached. "Blaine, I can't take this," he called after his friend. "Blaine I...I'm sorry."

Blaine turned around at that, giving Kurt a small shrug. "Yeah, so am I."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Delicious angst hehe. I had to redo this chapter like three times because I wasn't convinced I had gotten it right the first two times, so sorry for the delay. Basically it's been a hellish week, but I got through it. You guys are awesome and patient, and above all supportive. I could just kiss you all, thank you!_

**_Review and give me happy feelings :D_**


	13. Chapter 13

Finn buttoned the last button on his shirt. He buckled the clasp on his belt, adjusted the knot on his tie, and even polished his shoes – no small feat on a plane experiencing some minor turbulence. He made sure his hair, what little hair he had, hadn't formed into an angry army of cowlicks as he slept and then he brushed the lint off his pants.

He looked at himself in the mirror, momentarily satisfied with his appearance. But even in his best civilian clothes, he still felt naked. He was nervous and his mind was racing a thousand miles a minute. They were less than an hour from landing now and finally it was hitting him – _he was going home_. Yes, only for a day, but home nonetheless. He rolled his shoulders and gave his reflection a nod.

"You can do this," he muttered.

Then he gathered up all his things and made his way back to his seat.

"Whoa, whoa," Justin said with a laugh as Finn was restoring his bag that had held his change of clothes overhead. "I don't know who you are, my dapper friend, but the guy sitting in this seat was a disheveled army grunt. You'll have to find your own seat."

"Ha ha _ha_," Finn replied, rolling his eyes as he took his seat. "I clean up well, I know," he said, popping his collar.

Justin laughed and shook his head. "Man, whoever you're coming home to see is one lucky person."

"I guess so," Finn agreed. "I don't wear these shoes for just anyone."

Justin studied him for a moment.

"Are you trying to analyze me?" Finn asked, crossing his arms. "Because you're being blatantly obvious about it."

"You're nervous," Justin observed. "You're like…_really_ nervous. Why?"

Finn cleared his throat and sat back in his seat. He sighed before answering, "I don't know. I guess it's because it's been so long – years. Are you ever afraid that the people you love will forget you…and not _recognize_ you? Because I wouldn't blame them – I've never been there."

"Hey," Justin said, laying a comforting hand on Finn's shoulder. "You've been there when you could. I mean, you didn't even have to fly down here for Valentine's Day – I'm sure no one out there considers it a real holiday – but you _did_. That's a real gesture of love, you know?"

"I don't know, we'll see. I might be too late…"

"Stop that right now," Justin demanded. "It's never too late, Finn. Never."

Finn just shook his head and shrugged. He hoped for his sake that Justin was right about that.

* * *

><p>"It's never too late to find love on Valentine's Day," Puck said into his microphone. He was on his sixth consecutive hour of walking the streets and interviewing civilians. Why someone hadn't put him out of his misery yet, he would never know. "Why, you can even find love right here on the street."<p>

He turned around to interview the two people he'd practically hunted down in a moment of desperation. But they were too wrapped up in one another to notice him – in fact, they were kissing as if their lives depended on it. Their worthless, grimy, unkempt lives...

Puck cringed, but turned back to the camera. "Earlier I med Todd here," he patted the man on the shoulder, trying to unsubtly get his attention.

The man just moaned and waved Puck away with his free hand. Maybe he'd never been kissed before – poor chum. Judging by the way he was practically eating her face, he wouldn't be kissing anyone again for a very long time. Gross.

"He told me he was just leaving the office for his lunch break when he saw Melissa," he gestured to the woman, who was wrapping her leg around Todd in a way that was probably not appropriate for television. "She was sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus and he said - and I quote - "He just knew." She's a…dancer," Puck fibbed. _Exotic_ dancer was probably a more accurate description, but he had to be discreet. "They said it was _love at first sight_, and they've been inseparable ever since.

He turned to see if they'd wrenched their mouths away from one another long enough to fit a question in, but alas, no luck.

"And there you have it," Puck said, gritting his teeth. "Spur of the moment love. Watch out, Los Angeles, you could be next to get struck by cupid. Back to you in the studio…"

The cameraman counted down and then said "We're clear," when they were off the air.

Puck shook his head and cracked his knuckles. "Man, this is _ridiculous_," he muttered. "Come on," he told the cameraman, leading him off in the opposite direction. As a last thought, he turned back to the couple and said, "Hey, man, you probably have to pay her extra for tongue."

That finally broke the couple apart and the woman gasped at Puck's directness.

"And judging by that suit, you can't afford to get laid tonight," Puck said before turning away. "Better luck next time," he called over his shoulder as he and his cameraman walked away.

"Goddamnit, John," he grumbled to the cameraman. "This shit is hopeless, am I right?"

"Don't look at me," John said, holding up his free hand – his other shouldering the camera. "I didn't ask for this story. I'm just here to hold the camera and make you look good."

"Man, the studio is going to grill us alive for shooting shit like that. Do you want to go back to doing small interest pieces or do you want to be in the thick of breaking news?"

"Look, there's nothing we can do about it until this day is over. Then we can go back to shooting sports pieces, the both of us," John reasoned. "Until then we just have to make the best of it and find the most interesting people we can."

"I hate you," Puck declared as they rounded a corner. "I hate you and your wisdom and your optimism."

"Don't hate the cameraman, hate the show," John replied evenly.

Just then there was a commotion on the side of the street. There was a young woman, dressed to the nines in a blue, satin dress who appeared to be beating the _crap_ out of a man as he tried to open the passenger side door of his car for another woman.

Puck's face lit up. "_This_ looks promising," he said. He gestured for John to start rolling the camera. "Let's see what's happening."

"I don't think - "

"Eh, no one's paying you to think!" Puck told him.

He shrugged and turned on the camera as Puck rushed to the scene.

"Hey, hey," Puck said to the young woman, turning on the charm. "Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Noah Puckerman. May I just say that you, my lady, look _stunning. _Really ravishing."

"Yes, because I was planning on going out for a nice meal with my boyfriend – now _ex_-boyfriend!" she screamed into the ear of the man she had pinned against the car.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down there, pretty lady," Puck said, glancing back at the camera. "What went wrong, if I can ask?"

"Oh I'll_ tell_ you what went wrong," she snarled. "I found him taking out this other b - "

"Careful," Puck warned, taking back the mic, "We're a family-run station."

"I found him with this other…_woman_," she hissed. "And he was taking _her_ out to dinner. I showed up and he couldn't even remember my _name_ – that's how much he's been playing me."

"I'd beat him up, too," Puck replied good-naturedly. "Please, continue."

"I did nothing!" the man insisted, his arms twisted behind his back. "I was just trying to go about my business and this crazy lady attacks me!" He cried out as she twisted his arm even further. "I don't know her, man. I've never seen this woman in my life."

"We've been dating. For. Three. Years!" she screeched, smashing his head against the car with each word. "You're a pathetic excuse for a man," she growled before throwing him to the ground.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Puck recited, looking down at the man crumpled on the floor. He turned back to the camera. "And there you have it, folks. For some, this day is full of love, but be wary about who you wrong today. You could end up like this guy here." John got a wide shot of the man laying on the ground. "Noah Puckerman. Back to you."

Just as the camera cut off, Puck felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Great, it was probably his boss texting him to tell him how much he was fucking this up. He'd probably be back to pushing papers as early as tomorrow morning. Fuck everything.

He got out his phone and glanced at the screen, his eyebrows rising when he saw "Quinn" across the top.

[4:30 pm]

_**Hey, I heard you were kind of desperate for a story.**_

He replied quickly, intrigued.

[4:31 pm]

Quinn, we don't even work in the same business. You couldn't have "heard" anything.

[4:32 pm]

_**Okay, but I caught your last interview and you look a little bit…suicidal.**_

[4:33 pm]

_**I have a big story that needs a good sports reporter…**_

[4:34 pm]

Dear God, tell me more, please

[4:35 pm]

_**How would you like to have *exclusive* rights to the first Dave Karofsky press conference since his release from the Chargers?**_

[4:36 pm]

Quinn, I swear to _God,_ if you're shitting me right now…

[4:37 pm]

_**Don't believe me?**_

[4:37 pm]

_**That's fine. I can always get the number *one* sports reporter to do it**_

[4:38 pm]

_**I'm calling him as we speak…**_

[4:38 pm]

NO!

[4:39 pm]

I'm coming over to your office right now to get all the info

[4:40 pm]

_**Who's the best publicist in the whole entire world?**_

[4:41 pm]

Quinn Fucking Fabray!

"Come on," Puck called to his cameraman, who'd set his equipment down on the floor. "We have a _real_ story to cover."

* * *

><p>Nothing could've prepared him for what he found in Quinn's office.<p>

"Quinn?" he said softly, knocking on the closed door. The shutters were closed – odd when Quinn always left them open.

"Quinn, I'm coming inside whether you like it or not," he declared, trying to handle. It was unlocked. "I'm counting to three…"

No response.

"1…2…3," he said, putting his shoulder to the door and pushing it open. Was it his imagination or was it a little heavier than usual? It felt like he was pushing against something big – something that didn't want to budge.

But eventually he got it open enough to stick his head through the opening and look around. On the other side of the door was…Quinn? Quinn on the floor, face down, not stirring at all.

"Quinn!" he shouted, pushing open the door just enough to squeeze through. She skidded about another foot and moaned, but made no move to get up. "Oh my god, are you okay? What happened?"

She just moaned again and weakly brought her arm up to swipe him away. It was more like someone who's really tired reaching out to stop the alarm clock – slow and ineffective.

He knelt down beside her and flipped her over so that she was draped across his lap. Her head lolled against his chest and her other hand dipped across the carpet. And was that…chocolate on her fingertips? Oh God…

"Quinn," Puck prompted, shaking her slightly. He was choking back a laugh. "Quinn, did you_ literally_ eat yourself into a food coma?"

There were little red sprinkles clinging to the corners of her lips and Puck moved his hand to brush them away one by one. She still didn't stir, just lay limp in his arms as he cleaned her up as best he could. He hesitated before running his hand through her short blond hair.

She looked as close to peaceful as Quinn ever would. She almost looked younger; all the ever-present lines of worry and creases of panic erased from her features. There were dark bags under her eyes that even the best of make-up couldn't cover up – he could tell she hadn't had a full-night's sleep in a long time; a pity for someone so beautiful.

"Hey," he said softly, stroking her cheek with his thumb unconsciously. "Quinn, I'm here. Wake up."

"Hmm?" she murmured, scrunching her face up as she started regaining consciousness. "Where am I?"

"Um, we're in your office. Where you told me to meet you no less than 20 minutes ago – at which time you seemed to be in decent spirits. Now I find out that you're a raging choco-holic who needs to seek attention immediately."

"Shut up," she groaned, bringing a hand up to shield her eyes.

"Quinn, what's up with you? You only binge eat when you're stressed and I've never seen you eat yourself into a _stupor_ before."

"Well how observant of you," she snapped.

"What's going on?"

"I'm alone," she wailed, covering her face with her hands. "I'm alone and I hate it! Don't you ever hate being alone, Puck?"

"Not really, no…"

"I'm trying to make a rhetorical point here," she hissed, kneeing him in the side to shut up. "What are you doing tonight, Puck?"

He stayed silent until she kneed him again, sharper this time. "_Ouch!_ Well I thought that was a rhetorical question!" he protested. "I'm not doing anything…but for you I'd be willing to make an exception," he told her with a wink.

"Oh, tone it _down_," she told him in exasperation. "I'm not asking you _out_ – I'm just saying." She sighed and sniffled quietly. "I was supposed to have this huge party tonight," she said, her lower lip quivering from where it poked out just under her hand's reach. "I invited everyone, Puck – _everyone_. And no one's going to be there. Not a single person is bothering to even pretend they're going to show up."

She started crying.

Puck didn't quite know what to do – what does someone _do_ with someone who's blubbering and crying so pathetically? He wasn't really the comforting type and he didn't know what the right thing to say was to someone so emotionally _fragile_; someone whose emotions were so heightened. Luckily, she went on talking through her tears.

"Kurt's not even going to be there. He's my best friend! And he's flying out to surprise his stupid, perfect surgeon boyfriend. Why can't I have a stupid, perfect surgeon boyfriend! I deserve one! I'm likeable."

"You certainly are," Puck agreed – afraid to do otherwise.

"All I wanted to do was hate Valentine's Day with a few friends and some drinks. Is that so wrong, Puck?"

"Definitely not," he said with a small laugh. "I _hate_ Valentine's Day – especially this one. And you can bet I'm going to end it by knocking back a few."

"Are you _shitting_ me right now?" she asked, repeating his words from earlier.

Puck stayed silent for a moment. "…No?"

"You, an attractive male with no problems enticing the opposite sex, _hate_ Valentine's Day?"

"I loathe it," he told her. "It's the worst day of the year, in my opinion."

"Oh my god," she breathed, peeping through her fingers.

"What?" he asked.

Quinn stared up at him as if really seeing him for the first time. He felt a little uncomfortable as she studied him in silence. She shook her head after a minute. "We're like the same person…"

"As much as I'd like to swap horror stories with you and eat chocolate that's filled with chocolate," he said softly, "I came here to get the information on that press conference?"

"Right," she said. "I should get that for you."

"You should," he agreed, still cradling her in his arms as if she would pass out again at any given second.

She dropped her hands and looked at him for another long moment, almost expectantly. He realized that he was leaning a little bit closer to her – just slightly, but it was noticeable. She looked at him with wide eyes before prompting, "You can let go of me now."

"Right," he said quickly, moving his arm, which had been lying over her waist. "Sorry about that."

They both got up from the floor, dusting themselves off and avoiding one another's eyes.

"Sorry that I went all wacko on you," Quinn apologized as she moved to her desk and starting rifling through a drawer. "That was a little…unprofessional."

"Unprofessional…yeah," he said. "Look, I really appreciate you hooking me up with this sports exclusive. I know it might not show, but I'm so grateful, Quinn, I really am."

"You owe me," she said with a smile as she handed a file folder over.

"I do – whatever you want, just let me know," he swore as he took the file.

"Everything should be in there," she explained. "Venue address, parking passes, press passes, et cetera," she told him.

"You're the_ best_," he reminded her as he walked towards the door.

She sighed. "Yes, I am."


	14. Chapter 14

"Good afternoon, Los Angeles," Hannah Clark said into the microphone. "This is Hannah - filling in for Noah Puckerman - live at the local high school. Not only is young love formed and lost in these hallowed halls," she said as she walked down the hallway, "But it seems love is in the air all around – and not just with the students." She came to pause beside two women, clasping hands and waving to the camera in earnest.

"I'm joined by two coaches on staff here at Jefferson High: Brittany, who coaches the dance team, and Santana who coaches the cheerleading squad."

"Hi, people of Los Angeles!" Brittany squealed, waving at the camera. "I love you all – but I don't really understand how you all fit in that camera…Or maybe that's the cameraman's nickname! Hi, Los Angeles," she said to the man behind the camera.

Hannah chuckled and asked her first question. "Seems like you two are a match made in high school teaching staff heaven, doesn't it? You're the head of the dance department and you being the cheerleading coach?"

"Yes," Santana answered. "We're definitely meant to be. She's the one person I can always count on to make me smile – even if it's been a particularly trying day."

"Definitely," Brittany echoed, "She's the love of my life. And she looks really good in a skirt, too."

"I can see that," Hannah said with a smile before she fired off her second question. "How long have you two been together? And does it make your work situation awkward in any way?"

"We've been together forever!" Brittany chimed in. "For as long as I can remember."

"We've been together for five years," Santana told her. "But it feels like I've known her for so much longer. We're like sisters."

"But we kiss," Brittany said into the mic.

"But we kiss," Santana agreed. "And it doesn't make work in any way awkward. Really, she makes me look_ forward_ to coming to work because, let's be honest, it takes a lot for us high school teachers to drag ourselves up at the crack of dawn and keep up our constant level of energy until three o' clock. But she makes me look forward to the weekdays because she's my best friend." She hugged Brittany closer.

"And she takes me out to lunch!" Brittany chirped. "That's a definite upside."

"It's true," Santana nodded.

"I totally love her," Brittany said with a grin, then she planted a kiss on Santana right there and then.

Santana staggered back a step, but she wrapped her arms around Brittany and returned the kiss with equal enthusiasm. They were giggling like teenagers when they broke apart, looking happier than before.

"There you have it, folks. Who says you can't find your true love in high school?"

* * *

><p>"You <em>have<em> to help me," Sam begged into the receiver, looking around to make sure no one was listening to him. "I don't know what to do here, man. I'm so incredibly out of my depth."

"Listen," Puck said. "I can't really help you right now. I'm on my way to this press conference and I'm really busy…"

"I'm _begging_ you," Sam pleaded. "I need a good date idea that I can execute within a couple of hours," he said, glancing at his wristwatch. "I will owe you for_ life_."

"What's the problem?" Puck asked. "Why can't you handle this yourself?"

"I'm telling you, I completely forgot it was Valentine's Day and if I want to keep this amazing, wonderful, mind-blowing girl as my girlfriend, then I have to come up with something fast so I don't seem like the world's biggest asshole."

Puck snorted.

"Grow up," Sam told him.

"Okay, seriously," Puck began. "Take her out to a nice restaurant. There's a new romantic comedy thing or whatever playing down at the cinema. So why not do that? Just stay classic."

"No, that's too simple. I could do that on any normal day."

"Okay, well what do you two like to do together?"

"That's just it. I don't really _know_. Like when we hang out, I'm not really _thinking_ about it, you know? I guess we spend a lot of time at work together, we go out to lunch – sometimes dinner. But other than that…I mean, we slept together once. And I liked _that_…"

"So sleep with her again. Go for round two, maybe even three – that's romantic." Puck laughed at his own joke. "Or better yet, let her be on stop and - "

"This is serious," Sam hissed. "I _was_ planning on sleeping with her again_ if_ the date went well. But the date can't _just be_ sex – that's so tacky."

"Says who?" Puck wanted to know. "That's my idea of an ideal date."

"You'll do anyone who has boobs and is still breathing," Sam spat in frustration.

"Yeah, and you'll talk dirty to the same range of people," Puck pointed out. "Man, you have no idea what I'd do to have that job. Just listening to girls getting off all day?" He groaned just thinking about it. "Now I know there must be a heaven."

"It's not all it's cracked up to be," Sam said dryly. "And I have to service men too," he said, feeling himself turn red.

"It's a tough life," Puck commented.

"Give me another suggestion," Sam ordered.

"Take her out to the swankiest restaurant in town and wine and dine her until she begs you to take her home. I'm talking break-the-bank fancy."

"I could never afford that," Sam muttered. "Isn't there some kind of inbetween date? Not too fancy, not too casual? Isn't there a 'been dating for a little while but I think you might be the one' date?"

"There is if you want her to actually be the one," Puck said.

"You haven't helped me at all," Sam told him.

"It's a tough life," his friend repeated. "Deal with it."

"Yeah, shut up and go do reporter-ly stuff."

"Go do sex-talk-y stuff."

"I will. I've got a call on the other line."

"I hope it's a guy."

"I'm hanging up," Sam told him.

_Click_, and the line went dead.

* * *

><p>Sugar was doing her best to be the fun, loving nanny she always was when Parker got home from school, but she just couldn't muster up enough enthusiasm. She'd intended on baking a batch of Valentine's Day cookies to snack on after school, but she'd forgotten, so she'd had to run out and buy some store bought cookies. Yes, they were the soft, big sugar cookies that melted in your mouth, but it was the thought that counted (and store-bought cookies didn't require much thought or energy).<p>

She was a little depressed, to tell the truth. There was always that disappointment; that silent solemnity when plans fell through. Like the day isn't all it's cracked up to be because you've seen the possibilities of what _could_ have happened - but it didn't.

And her plans to make love with Artie on the most romantic day of the year hadn't just merely "fallen through", they'd blown up in her face. Then blown up _again_. Honestly, her mother walking in on her naked boyfriend? Talk about something you don't a) need or b) _anticipate_.

There was no handbook on how to move past this. No self-help book entitled "So Your Mom Walked In On Your Boyfriend In Full-Frontal?"

There was really no recovering from this. Not only had she _not_ gotten any on this day which begs for people to get some, but she hadn't gotten to spend any time with Artie (because, hello, he left as soon as he possibly could – he was so _embarrassed_), and she was starting to feel a little down on herself. It wasn't really fair that when she woke up in the morning, she'd been so sure that it would be a wonderful, romantic, _perfect_ day and now it was just…nothing. Just another day. Another day of nothingness.

"Sugar?" Parker said. "Are you okay? You're really quiet and usually you talk so much that I want to tell you to be quiet but my grandpa says that's rude, so I don't."

"I'm okay," she told him, petting his hair as he bit into his cookie. "I'm just a little tired I guess."

"Today was the best day ever," Parker told her. "I got lots of Valentines – and more importantly, lots of candy!"

"I bet, Mr. Popular," she said with a smile. "Do you have any homework we can get through or are you okay?"

"Mr. Hummel didn't really give us any homework today. He's really nice."

"He most certainly is."

"Yeah. I guess he was being easy on us today since it's a holiday. Or maybe he forgot. Either way, I don't care." He started picking at his cookie – a nervous habit. "Sugar, do you think I'm going to get to see mom or dad today? Because I made them cards but…" His sentence drifted off.

"Um, I don't know, kiddo. Probably not. They love you, but they're both very busy right now. But your mom will be back next month – just in time for your birthday."

"It's not fair!" Parker shouted out of no where. "It's just not fair!"

"Hey, calm down, buddy. I know it's not fair, but your parents still love you…"

"I had plans. I was going to give them their cards and we were going to eat dinner like a family." He was crying; little boy sobs that made his words stumble over one another as he pushed his plate away angrily.

Sugar caught it just before it hit the floor. "Hey!" she shouted. "No matter how angry we are, we do _not _break things, remember?"

"I don't care," Parker said, jumping down from his chair. "Just leave me alone!" he yelled at her before running to his room and slamming the door with all the force a child could rally.

Burt wandered into the kitchen, looking down the hallway where Parker had just disappeared.

"Rough day?" he guessed.

"It was the _worst_, Mr. H," Sugar groaned. "The worst Valentine's Day in the history of the entire world! Why was this day invented?"

"Oh I doubt it was all that bad," Carole said, making her way into the kitchen. "I was just about to make an early dinner, Sugar. Would you like to stay and talk about it?"

"I'll take the talk, but I have to pass on dinner. I'm expected at a party this evening. But it'll only be the most awkward experience of my life."

"Tell us," Burt urged her as he sat down at the kitchen table.

He was so old and so nice – she knew when he asked to hear her story that he genuinely wanted to hear it. So how could she not tell him?

"I was supposed to have sex with Artie today," Sugar blurted.

Carole gasped and dropped the pan she was holding with a clang. "Oh my…"

"I mean, we're of age," she went on quickly to say. "Obviously. And we're in love. So we figured no time like the present – no time like the most romantic day of the year."

"Of course," Burt said. She could tell he was fighting to keep his usual diplomatic tone.

"But he was, erm, waiting for me in my apartment…and my mom walked in on him. Like…hot and ready, if you understand me.

"Oh dear," Carole mumbled to herself, still busying around gathering food and trying to stay as far away from the topic as humanly possible.

"So I take it that it didn't work out," Burt guessed.

Sugar shook her head. "Not at _all_. And now Artie probably hates me because why would I give my mother a key to my apartment? Now that I think about it...I don't understand what I was thinking. That's the point of being an adult and having my own place and my own responsibilities, right? Not so that my mom can just waltz in whenever she wants - that's not how it works!"

"You couldn't have possibly imagined that either you or Artie would ever be put in this situation," Burt comforted her, patting her hand. "Who could prepare for something like that?"

"And that thing with Parker just now," Sugar went on to say. "What _was_ that? It was so..._abrupt_. One minute he's going on about how it was a good day and then he's yelling about his parents..."

"The kid's been dealt a tough hand," Carole said with a small smile. "Luckily he's surrounded by people who still love him, but sometimes it must not seem like enough."

"I just wish there was something I could do," Sugar moaned. "I mean, I know it's been a horrible day for me, but it shouldn't be a horrible day for Parker. He's just a_ kid_. He's supposed to be enjoying himself, not wondering where his parents are."

"It's been difficult," Burt said, agreeing with his wife. "Carole and I are his grandparents and Kurt is his uncle, yes. But now that Parker's in his class and with a different last name he has to draw the line between family and teacher-student relations. I think sometimes a child just needs their parents, point-blank. And you can't fill that void any more than Carole and I can."

"We all try our best, dear," Carole told Sugar. "And he loves you - he really does. Valentine's Day just puts him in a touchy mood. Any holiday does, really. That can't be helped."

"I guess not," Sugar sighed. "Still, I wish there was something I could do."

"Yes, well," Burt chuckled. "When you figure out how to cheer him up, let us in on the secret, won't you?"

* * *

><p>In his hands, Kurt held the key to his own destruction.<p>

Because that's what is was, this phone number. It was just a mere ten digits, area code included; ten digits that Kurt had already punched into his phone. He considered pressing the "end" button and just forgetting the whole thing. Maybe he could just head home and forget everything - forget the surprise flight, the entire fight with Blaine, and just crawl up in bed and let the rest of the day pass. Then after that things would go back to normal, right?

But now that he had the final piece of the puzzle, others were starting to fall into place. And they consumed him.

Like how sometimes when they held hands, Kurt could see and feel the indentation of what must've been a ring on Jesse's left hand. Jesse always said that it was a scar, but who has a scar in the shape of a ring on their ring finger? Or maybe it was the way he couldn't call Jesse on certain nights because he "couldn't talk" after a certain time. Maybe it was the way his place wasn't completely furnished, like he'd never finished moving in.

Or how his phone was always locked. And how he always deleted his text messages before he saw Kurt. Sometimes if Kurt wanted to mess around on Jesse's phone, he'd even delete them in front of his face. "..._There_," he'd say once they'd been deleted, suddenly handing over the phone without any qualms. Or how about the fact that he avoided the topic of his alleged divorce completely, refusing to talk about what Kurt thought was his ex-wife and a bad relationship?

But maybe she wasn't his ex and maybe they'd turned a bad relationship good. Maybe he _was_ just using Kurt for the sex and the company - nothing more. And now that the idea was planted in his mind, it was growing. He couldn't just turn the switch off because now every inch of him was aching with the need to _know_. He needed to know now or else he was going to drive himself insane with the possibilities of it all. If he was going to worry, if he was going to hurt, he needed a concrete reason as to why. He didn't do well with theories. Theories could drive a man mad with no roots in reality at all. But maybe truth could do the same.

Either way, he had to know. He had to know. If he didn't, he could never bring himself to get on that plane with a clear conscience.

So he pressed "call". And he waited.

His heart was pounding. Oh god, what was he doing? Was he really being intrusive and calling someone else's number? What if Blaine was right? What if Jesse's wife answered. Or worse, what if Jesse himself answered? _Shit_, he'd see Kurt's number on the caller ID and know that he was dating a selfish, insane bastard. Christ, this was terrible idea. He should just hang up the phone right n -

"Hello?" a small voice answered the phone.

Kurt felt sick to his stomach. A child. It was a _child_.

A little girl to be exact. She waited before repeating, "Hello?"

"Hi," Kurt said, putting on his best elementary teacher voice. "Who may I ask am I speaking to?" Oh god, he was a pedophile now. He was turing _pedophilic_ for this. He'd get his license revoked and he'd be fired and put in jail -

"Louise Ann St. James," the little girl recited proudly, not thinking twice about giving a stranger her full name. She sounded about seven at the oldest.

"Is there someone else there, Louise Ann?" he asked kindly.

Just because she had Jesse's last name didn't mean anything right? He could've had kids before the divorce, couldn't he? This wasn't proof, surely.

"My brother Kevin is here. You could talk to him," she said, sounding like she was walking to find him. "But he's younger than me."

Oh god, he wasn't going to become even _more_ of a pedophile for this. "No, that's okay," he hastened to say. "I actually called to talk to you, Louise," he fibbed. He was definitely going to hell. He had a goddamn one-way ticket straight into the fiery pit for this.

"Okay," she stopped walking.

Then, suddenly, he could see it. He could picture a young girl, almost eight years old, a mop of dirty blond hair upon her hair. She was already dressed in her nightie, standing in the middle of the living room perhaps. She could be in a wide, single story house, stretching on for acres. There could be a pool in the backyard and maybe even a puppy. Maybe two. He could just suddenly picture here in a house - a house meant for a family. A complete family.

"Do you have, um, a mom, Louise Ann?" he asked.

"Yeah, I do. Do you want to talk to her?"

"No, I'm fine," Kurt said. "And do you have...a-a Dad?"

"Yeah, he just came home today from his trip in San Fransisco," she explained eagerly, again, all too willing to give a perfect stranger all this information when it was asked of her. "And he's getting ready right now to take Mommy out to dinner. Because he's a romantic, like Mommy always says."

Kurt nodded slowly, trying to digest this news. "And your parents...are they still m-married?" There was a pause as she thought about this. "Like not divorced, not fighting, just plain married?"

"Yep," she answered. "They're in _love_."

"Louise?" a woman's voice asked, sounding alarmed. "Who are you talking to?"

"A nice man," Louise answered. "He's asked lots of questions about you and Daddy."

"Is that a telemarketer?" her mother hissed. "Here, give me the phone, sweetie. I'll take care of it."

Kurt froze. He held his breath as he heard the phone being transferred, as if she could see him and hear him on the other end. He panicked.

"Hello?" she said into the receiver.

Kurt hung up.

So...it was true. Not only was Jesse with the wife he'd claimed to have divorced, but he had two children. Two children he'd never bothered to mention to Kurt at all. A wife alone, maybe he could've handled. Sure, it would've broken his heart, but Blaine had been the one that cracked it in the first place. Blaine had been right - it wasn't fair that he had been the one to tell Kurt and not Jesse himself. Now he was just numb, accepting what he'd just heard.

But now there were _kids_. There were _children_ involved. This was an entire family's life that he was throwing into the balance. If they ever found out about his existance and his involvement with Jesse - even if he hadn't known at the time, which he hadn't (obviously) - it could ruin their entire lives. He couldn't do that. Even if he hated Jesse - which he was beginning to think he did - he couldn't do that to the two children whose existances he was now aware of.

The only thing he felt was anger; betrayal. Who _did_ that? Who had a perfect family set aside in the wings and continued to pursue other people? Who knew who else Jesse was seeing besides Kurt. He could be seeing any number of people. He could be using people to his heart's content. And who would stop him?

Then Kurt pulled out his phone because he had one more call to make.

Quinn picked up on the first ring.

"Kurt? Oh my god, is that you? Are you there already?"

"Never left," Kurt told her in a flat voice as he headed out of the airport.

"You didn't? What _happened?_"

"Is your party still on later?"

"Well, no, not really..."

"It's on," Kurt told her. "And I'm going to be there."

"You _are?_" she asked, managing to sound both astonished and relieved at the same time. "Are you sure?"

"Just make sure you have all the booze as humanly possible on hand. I'll be there in a bit." He smirked. "There's something I have to do before I meet up with you."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hu-friggen-zzah! Two chapters in one day - mission accomplished. Sorry about the delay once again - school is kicking my sorry ass, so I have to keep my priorities! I think the past few chapters have been Klaine-centric so we kind of all forgot that other characters had their own storylines haha. So that was nice to write some of the other characters for a bit._

_Well, according to my handy dandy fic notebook (yeah, I have one of those), this story's only got a few more chapters in it if it all goes according to plan. I'll do my best to write some more next week, but until then I hope you enjoyed it!_

**_Review, my lovely readers!_**


	15. Chapter 15

Cameras flashing everywhere.

If he hadn't known that the sun was setting, Dave might've thought it was noon again – everything was so _bright._ It was a madhouse on that roof (location chosen by Quinn, who thought the Los Angeles skyline would be the perfect backdrop for this news exclusive); from all sides voices beckoned him, chanting, "Dave! Dave! Over here! Look here, Dave! Dave, turn here!"

He felt his eyes watering under the bright, hot lights set up around the perimeter of the crowd. Each flash, pop, and click of the shutters on the cameras, he felt his eyes tearing up a little bit more. Silently, he cursed Quinn for not letting him wear sunglasses ("You'll look like a jerk."), then chose a spot high above the heads of the reporters and kept his eyes trained there.

Much better.

* * *

><p>Quinn sidled up to Dave, feeling a little out of place among all the sharply dressed reporters. She was already dressed for her party, in a (modest) above the knee a-line dress. It was a soft pink chiffon that flowed down the lines of her body, cinched with a thin, red ribbon beneath the bust, and her short hair was curled. Still, she felt a little delicate in comparison to everyone else there, fighting for Dave's attention.<p>

She half-hid herself behind him, giving him the limelight for the moment, but tapped his shoulder all the same.

She seemed to startle him out of a daydream – he'd been staring off into space from what she could see. "Are you ready?" she asked, trying to sound excited. "Made your decision yet?"

He let out a long sigh. "Well, I know what I'm going to _try_ to say," he admitted. "I don't know exactly how it'll…come out though."

"It'll be fine," she reassured him with a small smile, straightening out his tie. "Just get straight to the point and be confident in yourself." He nodded, taking in her words. "Or else they'll eat you alive."

"Thanks," he told her sarcastically.

Then she realized that a majority of her body was going to end up in these photos since she was standing so close and she threw on her least-awkward smile as possible. She discreetly wiped her palms on the back of her skirt – at least she hoped it was discreet.

She was about to un-subtly push him towards the podium - emblazoned with the symbol of the NFL - set up on the small stage. But then she heard _her_ name through all the pandemonium.

"Quinn! Wait, just one more minute – my camera guy got stuck on the elevator," she heard Noah Puckerman, of all people, shouting to her.

She sighed the heaviest of sighs and turned to face him, off to the side of the crowd and gave him a tight smile.

"You'll owe me forever," she told him sweetly with a tilt of her head.

He gave her a thumbs up of gratitude. "Great dress by the way," was all he said to her before turning away again.

Even though she knew what she was wearing, Quinn couldn't help but look down at her outfit. A small smile crept across her face even though she had been questioning the red heels two seconds ago. She guessed it _was_ a nice dress, but she couldn't figure out why having Noah _Puckerman_ compliment her on it made it seem just a tad _nicer._

She heard her name again, but couldn't break off her train of thought. She touched the hem of her skirt lightly, trailing her fingers over the soft fabric. Her mind imagined that it was just a fraction softer now than before. It wasn't until Dave touched her shoulder that she remembered herself and where she was.

"I'm sorry," she apologized quickly. "Quinn Fabray – present."

"We ready?" Dave asked her. As if they were one unit – a team. He was still waving to the flashing cameras as she turned away from Noah.

"Ready when you are," she answered concisely. "Oh, one more thing," she called after him, snatching his arm.

"What? Is there something in my teeth?" he fretted.

"No, no, nothing like that," she reassured him over all the shouting. "I just wanted to let you know that you're not just my client…You're my friend. And no matter what you choose – playing, retiring, becoming a bad actor in afternoon sitcoms – I will do everything in my power to make sure you're taken care of."

He looked a little taken aback by the sudden show of support, but he took her hand in his and squeezed it, giving her a pretty good idea of what he would've said had he been able.

"Thank you," was all he managed before making his way to the podium, leaving her standing alone awkwardly in front of all the cameras.

Was it her imagination or did he wipe his eyes before stepping up to the microphone?

She shook her head and forced herself to put on her don't-fuck-with-me-because-I-mean-business face and turn towards the reporters. She felt that familiar calm before the storm; her previously wild, frenzied nerves turned silent. Just before she opened her mouth to speak, she saw Puck mouth something in her direction – something she barely made out before beginning:

"_Here we go._"

* * *

><p>Dave stood as tall as possible, sending what he hoped were cool smiles at all the huge cameras which had been shouldered and turned on. A million red lights caught his eye, letting him know that he was being recorded. The lights seemed even brighter, if possible, but he didn't even flinch.<p>

He turned his head as Quinn called for attention.

"Excuse me, we'd like to begin now!" she shouted over the din. The crowd grew quieter, but not quiet enough. "If we could have silence now, my client has a few words to say. Or else you can all go home now."

An immediate hush fell over the mob of news casters and journalists.

Quinn smiled sweetly and said, "Thank you." She turned to Dave and gestured him to go ahead. "Dave, if you will."

He nodded and took a deep, shaky breath. He hoped the shaky part didn't catch in the microphone, because he would need strength for what he was about to say.

"Good evening," he addressed the audience, both live and no doubt watching in thousands of living rooms somewhere on the West Coast. "Thank you for all coming out tonight on such short notice. I know what day it is and I know that most of you are probably on the verge of getting your asses kicked for missing the most widely celebrated date night - " Laughter. Laughter was good. "So I'll try to be as brief as possible."

Microphones and tape recorders were being shoved in his direction, and for a moment – just a brief second – he felt the weight of every single person who would listen to this and who would read this in the morning papers tomorrow; boys and girls, men and women, and every variation of the above in every age range and ethnicity scope. Millions of people – all his fans and even people who despised him for no other reason than what team sigil was emblazoned on his helmet. How easy it would be right now to just skip over the middle part and get to the end. But nothing worth saying was ever easy to say, he decided. So he continued.

"A lot of people – probably a majority of you standing before me tonight – think that I should retire here and now. And I've been seriously considering that – I _have,_" he told them. "I mean, why not, right? I've been very fortunate in my life and I've worked hard, I've been paid well. I have a house bigger than I'd ever dreamed and more than what I need, I have a nice car, I'm surrounded by friends and family. There's nothing that I could possibly want anymore, right?"

"Right!" one of the reporters agreed.

More laughter.

And for a moment, Dave laughed with them. He ducked his had and smiled, his gaze falling on the notecards he'd forgotten about. He pocketed them – they weren't needed.

"Wrong," he said. Everyone fell silent. "I feel that you all are my confidents, if you will," he joked, "And, it being this day and all, I don't feel bad admitting this: I want to fall in love."

Mumbling broke out, but Dave didn't care.

"I want what all of you want," he announced. "I want to meet that special person. I want to woo them – buy them flowers and gifts just because I was thinking of them; call them every night just to say good night and every morning just to say good morning because want their voice to be the first and last thing I hear every day. I want to marry them; start a family of my own – fill up that big, empty house of mine."

"And I had the chance to do that, you guys. I had the chance with the perfect person – I had love…And I blew it. I've done nothing but think about it for weeks on end: what went wrong, what I could've done differently. And the answer is probably 'everything', but I think it came down to this: I wasn't honest with myself and I wasn't honest with all of you about who I am."

He spotted Quinn, watching him carefully. She didn't look surprised or upset, shocked or worried. She had her hands clasped in front of her and she was smiling.

Not a tight, cold smile she often put on for other people, but a genuine one – crinkling the corners of her eyes. It was her calm demeanor that encouraged him to say what he came to say.

"I'm gay."

_Chaos._

Pure and utter bedlam broke out. Cameras went off like mad, flashing and clicking in a violent frenzy. People were knocking each other over to get the shot – the shot that would go down in sports history as the exact moment in time that David Karofsky came out to the world – and people were shouting left and right.

Some were yelling superlatives into their tape recorders so that they might type this down later, reporters spoke loudly and quickly into their microphones, cameras were raised above everyone's heads as the crowd converged, moving in even closer - as if that were possible.

He heard everything from shouts of outrage to cries of support. He could hear people yelling questions over all the hollering like, "How will this affect the locker room situation, Dave?" or "Do you expect your fellow and future teammates to be comfortable with this, Dave?" and "David, how difficult has it been to resist other players all season long with their asses constantly in your face?"

Dave answered none of these, but gritted his teeth and stayed quiet. After a moment he leaned in towards the mic to say, "That's all I really had to say, I guess."

Quinn stepped in, placing her hand on his shoulder as she fiddled with something near the microphone. There was an earsplitting screech as the feedback from the mic coursed through the air. People everywhere put their hands over their ears, including Dave – but not Quinn. In fact, she turned it louder – to the point where Dave thought it was either so high pitched that it was damaging his hearing permanently or almost a silent subliminal noise coursing through his own brain.

Then she did something and the noise cut, leaving a dead, ringing sound in his ears and probably everyone else's.

"If anyone has a question of _substance_ to ask my client, I ask that they speak now or else we're through here."

No one said anything for a moment and for a second Dave had this horrible feeling lacing through his gut that no one actually…_cared._ About him, at least. They didn't care about his groundbreaking career nor the embarrassing mishaps that almost ended it. The fact that they had nothing positive to ask scared the crap out of him.

"This doesn't change anything," he blurted out. "Being gay doesn't make me a _different person._ It doesn't change who I am or what I've done – it doesn't define me. I am not my sexuality, just as none of you are yours." People were starting to listen to him now. "I'm still a football player and my love of the game is my greatest love. All I'm saying is I'm open to other kinds of love now and I'm ready to be honest about who I am – part of who I am. This is me," he concluded.

"David, if I may ask," a sports anchor from channel two inquired, "Does this mean the Chargers dropped your contract?"

"Oh yeah," he answered, as if just remembering that this whole press conference was about his future in football. "I can confirm that they have decided to let me go. But I think it was a good decision for both myself and the team – we'll be better off without one another."

"Quinn!" someone shouted, a hand waving in the air to go with the voice. "Quinn, may I ask your client a question?"

Dave turned to his publicist, who was turning an interesting shade of pink. He could see her putting on her serious face as she nodded and pointed over to the man. "Umm…Channel 13," she addressed him.

"Noah Puckerman," the sharply dressed anchor informed Dave. "Channel 13 news," he added unnecessarily. "David, while I fully support you embracing who you are and empowering others across the nation and perhaps the world to do the same, I have to ask: does this mean you'll be looking for another team or does this mean retirement for you? You know, finding that one guy and starting that family just like you said?"

Dave smiled and nodded. "I thought about retiring. And it seemed like the natural thing to do. But no – not yet. I'm gay and I'm definitely going to keep on playing. Miss Fabray here's already lined up a few potential matches for me – football teams, that is," he joked.

Most of the reporters laughed at _that._

By his side, he could feel Quinn patting his back. "You're doing great," she told him. "I'm proud of you."

That was all the comfort he needed at that moment.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry Mr. Hummel, but all Dr. St. James allows me to tell you is that he's in a very important surgery tonight – life or death. He can't be disturbed at the moment. But he can call you back at his earliest convenience - most likely tomorrow."<p>

Kurt sighed heavily into the receiver. He shouldn't be calling anyone while he drove – he was already a menace on the road in his mixture of anger and hurt as it was – but tonight he made an exception. And, boy, was he fucking _tired _of playing the nice guy. The nice guy was always the one getting _cheated on._

"Let me tell you something, Miss Nobody Receptionist Lady that Jesse's probably sleeping with too - " The silence on the other end of the line only encouraged him to keep going on what was obviously the right path. "I know that asshole is _married_ and I know that he didn't leave to San Francisco to perform an emergency heart surgery tonight. I _know_ that cheating scum is somewhere in LA tonight and you're going to tell me exactly where he is right now because I know _you _know. Isn't that right?" he sneered.

She hesitated. He knew he had her.

"I know which restaurant he's at," she grumbled. "And I shouldn't tell you…"

"Yeah, well, lots of people do what they _shouldn't_ do," he scoffed. "Like good looking surgeons taking advantage of every person with two legs," he went on to say. "God, I hope he used protection with you, because he sure as hell didn't with me…" A white lie – who was it going to hurt? He needed the name of that goddamn restaurant now at any cost.

"Providence," she spat out. "The early evening seating for two."

"You've been of great assistance," he thanked her curtly before hanging up the phone without another word.

When the light in front of him turned green, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator and jetted off, weaving through traffic at the speed of light.

He had a dinner to crash.

* * *

><p>"Mr. and Mrs. St. James," the maitre'd greeted them at the podium in the front of the restaurant. She looked a little panicked to Jesse - a good sign. Fear got things done. "We're so honored to be receiving you tonight. Let me go check on your usual table."<p>

There were many sullen-looking couples setting in for a nice long wait. No doubt one that would last anywhere from one to two hours at the least.

Jesse wound an arm around his wife's waist and subtly started kissing her neck in a way that probably wasn't appropriate for a restaurant setting, but rather a bedroom setting. But it made her smile and laugh anyway – that was what was important.

"Jesse, stop," she giggled, pressing closer to the touch.

But he knew she didn't really mean it. She loved it when he made a show of having her on his arm – said it made her feel…special. Yeah, that was the word. _Special._ As if he were proud to be seen with her; like it sent a silent message to everyone that he was hers and hers alone, and vice versa.

The thought brought a wicked smile to his face. Because it was all a show. A kiss here, a touch there, a sentimental spouting of bullshit sonnets and memories shared, whispers of love, and that's all it took. That's_ really_ all it took. As if meaningless words, actions, and replaceable pieces of jewelry could ever permanently bind two people.

Most people seemed to think they did.

Most people didn't know when they were being lied to.

Jesse looked on as two people were quickly escorted from a table, waiters rushing in to clear the unfinished plates and replace the silverware and glasses with clean ones. People practically tripping over themselves after someone undoubtedly whispered one thing in their ear: a name.

_His_ name.

You see, when Jesse St. James showed up, people would move mountains to please him. That's how it worked – that's how he liked it.

And that's how it'd always be.

No more than a mere five minute later, they were being led to their table. Jesse kindly pulled out Sandra's chair for her, enticing a flirtatious grin. He waited until she was settled before taking his seat opposite her around the tiny circular table.

Then, just for that bit of extra flair, he moved his chair right next to hers, so he could drape his hand protectively across the back of her chair. Oh she'd like that. The way she smiled made it clear that she did. He nuzzled her neck for a while and brushed his foot against hers like they were teenagers again.

It was all a power play – that's how love and attraction worked in his world. Like a well-timed game of chess, it was just two players making moves. Strikes and counter-attacks. They would measure each others' every expression, every tactic, every shift of muscle.

Sandra bored him. God, how she _bored _him.

He knew all of her moves. He could see how every scenario was going to end and he hated that. He only had to glance at her to know which way she was going to go. There was no suspicion, no thrill – no _challenge._ They knew each other too well. It was _despicable. _It was _hateful._

How did people _live_ with each other after a certain point, he wondered. They date for years and years and _years,_ then they propose and are engaged for another year – maybe more – then they presume to marry one another if they make it through that hell. Then, if they were "lucky" they stayed with one another until they died. _Until they died,_ they'd have to put up with one each other. By nature, it shouldn't even be _allowed,_ but thus people fell into the societal trap over and over again like clockwork.

It wasn't normal to be glued to one person for such a long period of time. The human species was about evolving, adapting, _changing_ – wasn't it? Jesse laughed to himself at the thought of sticking with Sandra until her dying day. It just wasn't in the books if he had any say in the matter.

Granted, he had a ring on his left hand too, but that was for the sake of _other_ people – his parents, her parents, all their friends; people who thought it was the "right thing" for them to do. It was expected of them. And that just made it all the more _contemptible._

At first he'd made the most of it. If nothing else, one thing you can get out of marriage is consistency. Someone to share all the highs and lows with – and not to mention the sex, at least in the early stages.

But when had they started growing _dull?_

When had he realized that he wasn't the Jesse he used to be? Not a second too soon, that was for sure.

Some people would feel guilty about the lying and the cheating. The "dishonesty" might've made weaker men crumble, but not him – not Jesse.

How did he live with himself, you ask? _Easily._

If he had contained himself, kept himself "faithful" to his wife, he would've driven himself to the edge of insanity. He almost had. And that chasm of free will and natural instinct was starting to look really fucking good.

So he jumped.

And why not? Sandra was none the wiser. If he played her right she would think she was the only woman – or should he say person? – in his life.

That's what was so trifling about human beings. They were so _predictable._ Like clay, they could be molded in any direction and have the audacity to call themselves art. They were like children gazing at optical illusions - seeing only what they wanted to see. Like harps – you play them the right way and they practically sing. You just have to know where to put your fingers. Which could work both ways, depending on the person.

So he was playing all the right moves tonight.

Just _this_ night, because his wife, like every other love-struck woman in this history of modern earth, was smitten with this day. If one person proved their love and commitment to another on _this day,_ it was like a golden ticket into Happyville. Women would literally fall at men's feet if they were shown the slightest bit of affection on this _day._

So as far as Jesse was concerned, this was the day to play the part of the perfect husband. That's why he placed his hand on the small of her back and whispered all the right lines into her ear. That's why he ordered the most expensive bottle of wine and took her to this fancy, over the top restaurant in the first place. Then he made her feel like the most important woman in the world, the way they practically made that other couple clear out just for them - showing her what he could lay at her feet.

And tonight, when he bedded her, he wouldn't even pretend that she was someone else – namely Kurt. He wouldn't even try to wipe his mind blank and pray that it was over quickly.

He would seduce her. From this moment in the restaurant, in the car on the way home, and 'til the second they were in their bedroom, he would say and do all the right things to make her remember why they even married in the first place. Tonight he would convince her that he was the only man who would ever love her – who _could_ ever love her.

And maybe if he was convincing enough, she'd buy it for another year.

Then, if there was such thing as a God, that God would make sure that she left him alone for the other 364 days of the year (okay, maybe 363 days, taking one more for their anniversary – whenever_ that_ was).

He'd call her every day from the hospital and send her half-assed flirty texts, maybe some copies of the one-liners he sent Kurt. He'd vow to bring her home flowers every once in a while just to hear her gush over the phone with her sister about "how he bought them because he thought of me", and he'd do whatever it took to just stay afloat. To just be a "good husband" in her eyes so that he could continue on his merry way going about his own business and she would be too damn content to even _think_ about disturbing the waters.

He wouldn't leave a trace – he never did. And he would give her no reason to doubt.

All he had to do was get this one evening right.

And _that's_ why he almost spilled red wine down his best Armani suit when one Kurt Hummel strode in from the kitchens and made a beeline straight for their table.

"Oh my gosh, Honey!" Sandra said, patting his back as if that were going to actually _do_ something about the red wine constricting his air path – talk about going down the wrong tube. "Are you alright? Is it the wine – should we send it back?"

"No, I'm fine," Jesse choked out. "It was just a…cough," he lied.

But he couldn't tear his eyes away from Kurt fucking _Hummel's_ face. He was dressed in the same garb as every other waiter – black slacks, white button down with the sleeves rolled up, black bow tie, and an apron around his waist – and he had a pen poised above a pad.

For a moment, Jesse racked his brain for every piece of information about Kurt he had ever uncovered. Was it possible that he'd made a misstep? A miscalculation? Were their paths bound to cross like this at some point and he hadn't been able to predict it? Did he actually work here, unbeknownst to Jesse? That wasn't possible – he took his wife here every other week. If not to impress her, just to keep her happy and chattering as he pretended to listen.

There was _no way_ – no humanly possible way – that he'd overlooked this. He was Jesse St. James. He didn't _make_ mistakes. The _world_ made mistakes in relation to him, not the other way around. There was no way this could've slipped his mind. There was no way this was a surprise. This, too, he knew, was a power play. And he was looking at the power player as all this flashed before his mind's eye.

So he picked up his menu in haste to hide his expression – no telling what it potentially gave away – and sat back to watch the show. Even if he had a feeling that the finale would be him going down in flames.

He had to stay smooth – calm, collected.

"Are you here to take our orders?" Sandra prompted, looking curiously from Kurt to Jesse and then back again.

"Right, of course," Kurt said. "That's what I'm here for," he said in a cheery voice. "Look, I have a pen and everything."

Sandra laughed nervously along with him. "Yes, I can see that," she added unnecessarily. "Darling, did you want to go first?" she asked, turning to Jesse.

"No, I don't think I'm quite…ready," he managed to say, avoiding Kurt's stare.

"That's perfect," Kurt announced. "That gives us all the chance to get to know one another a little bit better."

"No," Jesse spoke up. "No. Absolutely not."

"Stop being rude," his wife hissed. She turned back to Kurt. "You know, I was just thinking how unfamiliar you looked," she told him. "My husband and I come here quite often and we know many of the wait staff by name, but I can't quite place you."

"Oh, I'm new," Kurt told her. "Just hired."

"_How_ new?" Jesse coughed "unintelligibly" into his napkin.

His wife sent him another glare that silenced him.

"My name is Kurt Hummel," he went on saying to Jesse's wife. "That's Kurt with a 'K' and Hummel with a 'u' and a double 'm', e, l," he explained. "This is just a part-time job. I work as an elementary school teacher."

"Oh that's _wonderful,_" Sandra gushed. "You work with children – how admirable."

"Yes, yes, I do," he nodded. "I quite love children, don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "As a whole, I try to teach my students to value friendship, family, and trust above all."

Sandra sighed and touched her chest as if that were the most moving statement ever to befall her ears and as if it literally made her heart grow inside of her. "That's so wonderful," she said. "What a lovely sentiment."

"Yes, isn't it?" he went on. "I think it's important that we instill in future generations that keeping a family together is what's most important, don't you?" He continued again without pause. "There's so much that is ugly in this world. So many horrible people that do _despicable_ things and it's like where are the _values_, right? What are we teaching to our children_ by example?_"

"I totally agree," Sandra said, leaning in closer to him.

Jesse cleared his throat and said, "I don't really think this conversation is suitable to have with a _waiter_ in a restaurant - "

Sandra shushed him loudly.

"You know I knew this guy – he was such a_ pig,_" Kurt pointedly threw Jesse a glare. "He told me I was his only one and spent all his time with me. He showered me with gifts and really made me feel really special, you know?"

"Ugh, those are the worst," Sandra empathized.

"Definitely," he agreed. "And then I started feeling like our relationship was growing deeper and like it was going somewhere. So, I decided to go for the big, romantic gesture. I bought a ticket to fly out to see him just for one night – it was going to be so love-inspiring, right? And I thought I was going to look in his eyes and tell him how I felt about him and us and everything." Sandra was hanging on his every word at this point. "But before I could even leave the airport terminal, something happened."

"What?" Sandra urged, seeming to completely forget that this guy was supposed to be their _waiter, _not a gossip train. "What happened?"

"I found out, from someone I trusted, that he had a _wife._" Another hard glare at Jesse. "Not only did he have a wife, ma'am. He had _kids_, too."

A moment of silence as he let that sink in. "What a _slimeball_," Sandra hissed after a moment of her mouth hanging open.

"Yeah, he hurt me really badly," Kurt went on in that same, phony-sad tone of his. "So I just try to wake up each morning and teach my students that, if anything, they should be honest with one another and with me. And then, maybe - just maybe - one day the world we live in might be a little bit of a better place."

"That's so honorable," Jesse's wife said, clutching Kurt's hand. "We need more teachers like you."

"Thank you, ma'am," Kurt continued. "But you know what? I found the perfect way to strike this guy where it hurts."

"I'm ready now!" Jesse interjected. "I'm ready to order now, waiter. If you could just…_take my order._"

He stared down Kurt, silently begging him that if he just shut the fuck up, he would make this up to him. Somehow, some way he would figure out how if Kurt could just silence himself now.

For a moment, he thought it worked. But then he saw a little glint in Kurt's eye.

A little edge in his gaze that said "_dream on_".

"Jesse, stop being _rude,_" Sandra chastised. "What did you do?" she pressed, turning back to Kurt.

"I found the perfect way to make him pay for what he did to me," Kurt said with a smirk. He leaned down to whisper in Sandra's ear – just loud enough for Jesse to hear, too. "_I dressed up as a waiter and I told his wife the whole story right in front of his face_."

A few tables nearby had stopped to listen to Kurt's talking and there was a hush that fell across them all at once. Even if they hadn't heard what Kurt had said into Sandra's ear, there was no mistaking what it was by the expression on her face.

"So I'll make your orders to go then," Kurt told them happily.

Then he whipped off his apron and slapped it down on the table. And with one last, hateful look in Jesse's direction, he stormed out of the dining room and right out the door.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Mwahahahaha._

_Okay, so things have been really hectic and stressful, but I'm slowly trying to write as much as I can each day and get back into the swing of things. My priority is to finish this up as soon as I can with my crazy schedule and everything so stay tuned!_

**_Reviews make me happy, so send me love!_**


	16. Chapter 16

**_A/N:_** _Whoa, guys, sorry about that. I had been working on this chapter and then disaster struck about a week ago. I was going through all my documents and deleting all my academic papers from last semester and organizing all my complete fic chapters into a new folder and I guess this chapter got deleted in there (along with another from my other WIP). That being said, I had to restart it from scratch a couple of days ago so here it is!_

* * *

><p>Quinn was lying on the couch.<p>

She came straight home from the press conference, set up the food, hung up the piñata (yeah, she had a whimsical, shot- through-by-Cupid's-arrow heart-shaped piñata - she was aware of the irony in purchasing Valentine's Day products), and collapsed on the couch, declaring to her empty house that that was the extent of her energy.

There were assortments of leftover chocolates and little heart-shaped (ugh) lollipops lying within reach and she miserably stretched out her arm and caught one with the tips of her fingers, brushing it closer.

She considered eating it whole, without unwrapping it, but she wasn't sure if stomachs broke down aluminum or not.

And if they didn't, every time she went through a metal detector, she'd set it off. Then she'd be put on a no-fly list or on a list of undesirables when she went to the airport and she'd never get to go to Paris like she'd been planning to do since middle school! And, oh God, Kurt would murder her and she'd be known from this day forth as Aluminum Girl.

Maybe she'd get Kurt to make her a shiny, silver suit with a cape and she'd become nocturnal. It wouldn't be easy, she'd have to stay up all night for a few days and sleep only during the days, but it was possible. Then she could come out at night, saving people from their old leftovers and lecturing about proper refrigeration, one citizen at a time.

She unwrapped the candy and popped it into her mouth.

As she chewed on the chocolate-y, nutty goodness, she pondered never getting up again.

It'd be do-able, right? She could maybe sell all of her clothes and buy those cheap, soft cotton shirts and pajama shorts. She could live on her couch and have food brought to her.

Well, she'd have to quit her job. Or she could publicize from her couch if she really tried. She'd need her computer and her phone nearby at all times. Hmm…she'd have to invest in a power strip first, to keep everything charged, obviously. A publicist without her connections was worthless.

Maybe she could minimize her eating habits and stick to eating just oatmeal and dried fruits. She could leave her electricity running, but she could sell the television and turn off the cable. But keep the internet. Why did living have to be so complicated and expensive, she wondered.

She'd be forced to live in adult diapers though, since she'd never leave the couch again. Yuck. Fine, that was the one pitfall to couch living (okay, that and the showering – or _not_ showering – situation), but sacrifices had to be made. She wouldn't be able to show her face in public after this failure of a party anyways.

She sighed. Kurt would still come to see her, she was sure. He was a good friend – a true friend. He would ditch hot, I-missed-you sex with his sexy surgeon boyfriend to come be pathetic with her.

No matter what anyone said, _that_ was a sign of _true_ friendship.

Even if he only ever came over the chastise her and try to get her up off the couch, into decent clothes, and back into society. She could tolerate that since he'd be fulfilling her human-contact quota. Maybe he could be the one to bring her her oatmeal and dried fruit…That'd save her on paying for that service. Every penny counts when you live on the couch, you know.

She wondered if anyone else would come visit her if she chose life by couch – her work friends or college friends. No one came to mind. Those rat bastards.

But then she did think of someone. Noah Puckerman might come see her. They were friends, right? And he'd seen her in the midst of her mental breakdown earlier and what'd she'd been like and he'd still treated her like a human being at the press conference later. Even while it was happening and she was lying on the floor of her office, he never once looked at her like she was crazy. He even _talked_ to her - what was _that_ about? He was a nice guy, sort of.

Just thinking of him seeing her in unflattering cotton tees and adult diapers made her blush and bury her face in her pillows.

Okay, maybe she'd have to get up, she admitted. And _not_ because of Noah Puckerman, but because she had some dignity left – no matter how slight.

So she got up. Kurt would be there any minute, she told herself.

* * *

><p>Mercedes was sitting in the nicest restaurant she'd ever seen. Much less set foot in.<p>

The lights were dim, chandeliers hung above each table. There were these rich, thick hanging cloths set as dividers to give off this feel of real privacy. A pianist was playing soft, romantic music and the wait staff all wore full tuxes - with the cummerbund and everything.

One look at the menu confirmed her suspicions.

"_Sam_," she hissed. "You _can't_ afford this."

He smiled to himself without looking up from his menu. "Of course I can."

She just stared at him, willing herself to suppress a smile as she shook her head. She couldn't. "Sam, have you forgotten that I know where you work? I know how much the _boss_ makes and even _she_ couldn't afford this place."

"Okay," he said. "I'm going to be honest with you." He looked grave as he covered her hands with his. And, for a moment, she feared the worst – though she didn't know what it could possibly be. "I'm a bank robber," he told her solemnly.

"Oh, shut up!" she scoffed, laughing as she did.

"No, seriously," he continued. "That car I drove us over in? My get-away car. I have a ski mask and everything."

She smacked his hand lightly. "Stop it. I was being serious."

"So was I," he shrugged. "America's Most Wanted, baby. Right here."

She felt herself blushing at the innuendo as he arched a meaningful eyebrow.

"Stop it," she told him. "_Behave_."

"Make me," he retorted.

She went back to her menu, red-faced. "At least let me pay for mine," she offered. "I'll…take out a second loan on my on my apartment or something."

He smiled. "I can handle it."

"You'll have to get _two_ more jobs to support yourself if I get a salad."

"Order two."

"_Sam,_" she pleaded. "I would've been _fine_ with pizza and a rented movie. I'm really _that kind of girl_. These entrees cost more than this dress."

"It's a beautiful dress," he commented, letting his eyes dip over her. "But a more beautiful girl wearing it."

She was just destined to be blushing all night long, it seemed.

"Who taught you these lines?" she teased. "Do they really work on people?"

"They worked on you," he razzed back. "But, really, my Dad taught me three things." He held up his hand as he ticked them off. "If you're using a girl or don't really like her, don't bother taking her out to dinner at all. If you think you like a girl, go dutch on dinner. If you think you love a girl, take her to a restaurant you can't afford and pay for everything anyways."

It was his turn to start blushing as soon as he seemed to realize what he said, ducking behind his menu quickly. She couldn't hide her grin as she reached across the table and touched his arm.

"You should get that engraved on a plaque," she joked. He let out a nervous laugh. "Oh, and, for the record: I think so, too."

They sat in silence for a few moments, both grinning like fools – still joined at the hand – both pretending to be engrossed with the menu suddenly.

"Look, Mercedes," he began. "I want to be completely honest with you – about everything."

"Me too," she agreed.

He squirmed nervously in his seat and took a deep breath. "So I need to tell you…I have another job. And I don't really talk about it – with anyone – but you should know that I'm an - "

"Accountant?" she teased. "Micro-biologist? Behavior Analysist? Come on, Sam, it can't be _that_ bad – you're doing _reception_ work right now."

"No," he said, struggling with his word choice. "I wanted to tell you…Well, no, you have a _right_ to know that I'm a - "

He cringed as his phone went off, shrilly shattering the romantic atmosphere.

"Work," he explained without even looking at the number. "I'm so sorry, but I need to take this," he told her, looking both embarrassed and apologetic.

She shrugged, unperturbed. "I understand."

"_Thank you_," he mouthed as he hurried towards the entrance.

She watched him go before turning back to her menu, vaguely wondering what she could order that didn't have any garlic in it – because she had a feeling she wouldn't be going home after dinner. Not tonight, anyways.

* * *

><p>"I <em>really<em> tried," Blaine concluded his story. "I told him the truth."

"Good," Mike told him, patting him on the shoulder. "That's good for you, man. You did the right thing."

"I don't know," Blaine grumbled. "I don't _feel_ like I did. I feel like I ripped his legs out from under him, you know? He'll hate me. He'll always think of _me_ as the reason his best relationship went under."

"_You did the right thing_," Mike repeated more forcefully. "And if he knew what was good for him, he'd build you a _shrine_ for opening his eyes before he got hurt even more."

Blaine shook his head as they finished up taking the inventory. "You're deranged," was all he said.

"You know what?" Mike mused as they went to the front of the shop to clean up and rearrange the leftover flowers. "Kurt never loved Jesse. Not even close."

"Hey, be fair," Blaine retorted. "That's not for us to say. We're just on the outside looking in."

Mike shrugged. "I mean it. He was too calm about the whole thing."

"He was kind of pissed when we talked," Blaine countered.

"Knee-jerk reaction," Mike explained, nearly concussing him when he spun around with his broom in hand. "But not about that. Just about…everything. When you're in love with someone, you can't keep _still_. You're like a heightened version of yourself and you can't help but smile like an idiot at random intervals or get a spontaneous surge of energy just because the _whole world_ is lighter. This person you're in love with inspires you to wake up in the morning and go to bed at night, and you recognize that not everyone is at lucky as you, so you're just _oozing_ happiness to the point where complete strangers can see it in your face at a glance. And you're kind of everywhere at once, but you're most definitely _not_ calm. He was always too cool about Jesse."

"Doesn't mean it didn't hurt," Blaine pointed out. "It doesn't mean that he won't need months, maybe _years_ to get over it. Being cheated on isn't easy, even if you 'didn't love the guy'. And he was _married_."

"No, I know," Mike agreed. "I'm just saying he was never really in love…With _Jesse_, that is," he clarified, eyeing Blaine like one of those charts your optometrist makes you read. There was a weird emphasis in his voice, too, that Blaine couldn't place.

Blaine paused in his sweeping. "You know, I never have any idea what you're talking about, man."

Mike sighed. "It's hopeless," he told the heavens.

"What's hopeless?" Tina asked. She was leaning against the door jam and I kind of looked like she'd been there for a while.

"Everything, Tina," Mike professed. "Everything we've ever dreamt of. All our hopes and dreams – in vain."

She nodded like all this was making sense. "I've been saying it for years," she said.

"What do I pay you for again, exactly?" Blaine teased.

"For doing all the work and keeping the shop from going under while the two of you were running around town destroying delivery vans and transporting orders," she replied with a grin, crossing her arms.

He nodded. "Fair point. Remind me to give you a raise."

"What about me!" Mike complained.

"You're a package deal," Blaine told him, enunciating slowly. "If I give her a raise, it's like _you're_ getting a raise."

"She could just hide the money in her sock drawer," Mike pointed out.

"Hey, you're not supposed to know about that!"

"I know everything."

"Yeah well you don't know - "

"Hey, can we save the domesticity for home?" Blaine requested. He looked at the clock. Shit, it was almost nine at night and the shop was dead anyways. "You guys should go," he said abruptly.

"What?" Tina asked.

"Take off, go home," Blaine said. "Go do something. It's Valentine's Day."

"Yeah, but we don't get off til ten," she argued.

Mike sniggered. Blaine punched him in the arm. "Grow up." He turned back to her. "I shouldn't have asked you to work closing tonight. Look, I can take care of all this - " He gestured to the disaster zone that was the flower shop. " – on my own. I feel bad about keeping you this late anyways."

"Well, if you're sure…" Mike hesitated.

Blaine laughed. "I'm sure. Go on and get out of here. Go be in love and do things that people in love do. What was it? Burst from happiness," he teased.

"Actually, it was _oozing with happiness_," Tina corrected him.

Mike gasped.

"Good one," Blaine told her.

"Okay, I'll go get my stuff then," Tina said, heading towards the back room. "Meet me at the car in ten, dumby," she told Mike with a grin.

"I'll be there before you," he retorted, but with a twin smile of his own.

Blaine watched Mike as _he_ watched Tina disappear to the back. He kept looking long after the door had swung closed behind her and leaning the handle of his broom. Blaine walked over to the front door and flipped the sign over from "open" to "closed" before resuming his sweeping, feeling like he was intruding on something.

When Mike didn't move to follow her, Blaine asked, "How did you get so lucky anyways, Mike?"

"Hmm?" he mumbled, turning back to Blaine like he'd forgotten that he was there at all. "Oh, that's easy. I just married my best friend."

"Excuse me?" Blaine asked, feigning shock. "How long have we been married exactly and when were you going to tell me?" He put a hand to his chest for good measure.

Mike took a swipe at him with his broom, which Blaine swiftly dodged. "My _other _one," he said with a laugh. "Don't be upset, Blaine, I totally planned on telling you eventually." He put a hand over his heart. "I just wish it didn't have to be this way."

Blaine hung his head in feigned pain. "I've been wronged." They both laughed, giving up the act and Blaine took Mike's broom from him. "Get out of here before I change my mind."

"Are you sure?" Mike asked again. "I mean, there's still _a lot_ to do here…"

"I said _go_," Blaine repeated. "Or else I'll demote you. Besides, it's not like I have anywhere to go. I'll be here 'til it's done."

Mike was already walking towards the door, but before he left he had one more thing to say. "Hey, Blaine…The night's not over yet, okay?"

Blaine paused. "Alright? I'm not sure what you want me to do."

"It's not about what _I_ want," Mike told him ominously.

Blaine just looked at him blankly. "_Oooookay_. Goodnight."

"'Night," Mike replied, giving his friend one last glance.

As the door shut behind him, just before it slid closed, Blaine thought he could hear the sounds of Tina already teasing Mike. He smiled to himself before continuing his work.

He was still picking up stray petals, leaves, and stems and stuffing them all in already-overflowing garbage bags when he took a break to catch his breath. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the speed dial that he'd hit a million time before, but this was the first time he'd stopped himself.

Somewhere out there, he thought, Kurt was by himself. If he'd disregarded Blaine's bumbling speech, then he'd be in San Francisco by now and he'd find out the hard way that Jesse wasn't there. Then he wouldn't be able to get a flight back until the next day and he'd be stuck there in a city he doesn't know with no one he knows – in which case, he might be glad to take even _Blaine's_ phone call.

But if, by some miracle, he'd listened to what Blaine was trying to tell him then he was hanging around town somewhere. Maybe he'd seek out Jesse – yeah, Blaine thought, that sounded like something he'd do – maybe he'd go back home and mope, most likely he'd call someone to tell the story to. But _he_ hadn't heard from Kurt at all, so clearly whatever was going on didn't include him.

He'd hit the dial button unconcsiously, but he didn't put the phone to his ear. He could hear the sound of the phone ringing as it waited to be picked up, but he hung up after the third ring, deciding against it.

If Kurt wanted or needed his support, he'd call. That was how it worked. He'd already pushed himself too far in the picture. If Kurt's first instinct was to call someone else, than so be it, he thought bitterly. Not his problem.

He returned his phone to his pocket and kept working, thinking about what Mike said before he left.

* * *

><p>Finn's phone lay in his hand. He kept scrolling through his contacts with no actual purpose because none of these names would do him any good. After a few failed attempts at calling people he thought could help him out, he found out that a) some people move within the span of a couple of years and b) change numbers even faster.<p>

Factor in the current time, which was way too late to be bothering anyone on a regular day, much less _this_ day, and all seemed hopeless. Everyone was probably already out participating in their Valentine's Day plans and Finn needed to get home NOW.

His phone lit up with a number he didn't recognize and he quickly answering it, hoping for the most unlikely of miracles.

His face fell when it was a telemarketer. An automated one, no less. He jabbed the end button angrily and shook his head.

After waiting around to collect his luggage, he'd headed towards the nearest exit, hoping to flag down a quick taxi and be home within half an hour max. First thing he did was bump into a lady who was standing in the middle of the long lobby. After apologizing profusely and numerously, he noticed that there were people in front of her. _A lot_ of people, seeing as how they were at least a football field away from the front door.

"I'm sorry," he began. "But what is this line for?"

She laughed humorlessly and rolled her eyes. "This is the line to get a taxi around here."

Finn just stared at her. He could feel his mouth hanging open, but he couldn't help it – this was_ impossible_. "Are you sure?" he asked. "No, that _can't_ be."

"Well, apparently it _can_ be and it _is_," she answered. "We'll be lucky to get home tomorrow morning at this rate. A taxi seems to come about once an hour. No traffic is moving in or out."

"_A_ taxi? As in singular?" he fretted."No, no, no, you don't understand," Finn rambled. "I have to be back _here_ early tomorrow morning."

"Well, I'd love to help you kid, but what do you expect _me_ to about it?"

He shook his head, remembering himself. "Nothing, I'm sorry. I'm gonna find a better way out of here."

She sighed. "Yeah, good luck with that. I'll save your spot for you," she told him with certainty.

He thanked her and sprinted to the nearest information counter.

After being informed that all the shuttles had left for the night and that the ratio of taxis to passengers was approximately 0: 20, he was in a full blown panic.

No taxis, no shuttles, no car, no one to come pick him up. His only option was to, what, _run_ to where he needed to be? It was almost seventy blocks from here! There's no way he'd make that in time.

So that's why he was here now, wanting to chuck his useless phone across the lobby because what good was technology unless it could teleport him out of this damn airport? And if _that_ technology were available, airports would be moot, so why couldn't it just be invented already.

He was putting his head in his hands and contemplating just giving up and sleeping here on this dumb, plastic chair until his early flight, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, stranger," Justin said, taking the seat next to him. "Fancy meeting you here."

Finn laughed; the sound was bitter to his own ears. "Hey, Justin."

"Phone troubles?" Justin guessed with a questioning grin.

He stared down at the phone still gripped tightly in his hands. "Ah, no," he answered. "I can't seem to find a way to get out of here."

"Taxi?"

"Impossible."

"Shuttle?"

"All gone."

"…Teleportation?"

"Not invented yet," Finn said with a chuckle. "I guess my only option now is going on foot," he decided, getting to his feet. "I can still make it."

"Whoa, _whoa_," Justin halted him, standing up at the same time. "No way - are you _insane?_ A story like yours? Gotta have a Cinderella ending."

Finn shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I gotta go because my flight leaves tomorrow at five am, so…"

"Listen, Cindy," Justin told him. "The person who summoned me here was trying, really desperately, to suck up to me. Which, for the record, was in no way going to work. Ever. So they, um, sent me a…_car_."

"A car?" Finn repeated.

Justin blew out his lips until they made a _pbbbbt_ sound. "A limo, actually."

"A _limo,_" Finn echoed again. "Wow."

"Yeah, but like I said, the idiot's just trying to get on my good side with an over-the-top gesture, because where I need to go is approximately two blocks away from here. I'm guessing where you gotta be is _not_ approximately two blocks away from here."

Finn shook his head. "Times that by thirty five, maybe."

"Right," Justin answered. "Which means _your_ need is ultimately greater than _mine_."

It was then that he realized what Justin was suggesting exactly and he put up his hands like a physical barrier and backed away. "No. No, I couldn't do that, so just stop while you're ahead."

Justin was already grabbing Finn's bag, which he'd left on the floor. "I'm not going to hear another word about it, man," he told him with resolve. "You flew fourteen hours to get your ass here for one person and you should see them while they're still awake."

"No, I can find another w - "

"Oh, are you going to sprout wings and fly there?" Justin asked teasingly.

Finn shook his head. "Guess not."

"Take the car," Justin instructed.

"Limo," Finn corrected.

"Take the limo," the other man amended. "If you don't, I'll still walk the two blocks anyways and neither of us will use it."

Finn thought about it for a moment. This was a godsend – an unforeseen miracle – and his best - no scratch that and make it his ONLY - chance to get out of here.

"Okay," he agreed, smiling at last and feeling the long-needed relief finally washing over him. He was going _home._ "Alright, I don't know how I'll repay you though…"

"I won't hear of it," Justin shushed him. "But maybe you can pay me back by having the best night ever with the person you love."

Finn smiled. "I can do that." They exchanged a handshake and then Finn shrugged and full-out hugged Justin. "Thank you so much," was all he could say.

Over and over again.

* * *

><p><em>AN: It'll be a short Valentine's story, I said. Probably finished within the month, I said._

_I never said I was a good liar hehe_

**EDIT: **I will be point-blank honest with you: this is never going to be completed. Sorry guys! I really do appreciate the love, though!


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